A Cold Dash of (Sub)Reality:

Part One:  Things Fall Apart by Kelly "Kielle" Newcomb
(kielle@aol.com)

Part Two:  Seeking Help by Falstaff (gratton@worldnet.att.net)

Part Three:  Waiting For The Hammer To Fall by Tapestry
(malfam@inlink.com)

Part Four:  The Hunt Begins...  by Phil Foster
(scrumpy@balfourroad.demon.co.uk)

Part Five:  Fraying At The Edges by Kelly "Kielle" Newcomb
(kielle@aol.com)

Part Six:  You Can't Blame This On Me!  by Falstaff
(gratton@worldnet.att.net)

Part Seven:  Um...Is This The Wrong Number?  by Tapestry
(malfam@inlink.com)

Part Eight:  You Call THAT A Knife?  Now THIS Is A Knife...  by
Haesslich (haesslich@hotmail.com)

Part Nine:  The Last Straw by Geoff Jones (pjames@learn.senecac.on.ca)

Part Ten Et finale:  The Center Holds by Kelly "Kielle" Newcomb
(kielle@aol.com)


@@@


Subreality Cafe:  A Cold Dash Of (Sub)Reality

Part One:  Things Fall Apart

By Kelly "Kielle" Newcomb (kielle@aol.com)


Author's Note:  Just a wild idea I had when I SHOULD have been writing
something more important.  ;) Credits and disclaimers at the end of
this installment...  PS:  I am not 100% happy with the name of this
story, it's bloody hard to name an unfinished piece IMHO -- so beware
of future changes.



        "Somebody's been killing off characters."

        The Bouncer's only reply was a jaded shrug.  He was slouched back
into an alcove by the main entry to the Subreality Cafe, a battered
fedora pulled down to his brow to ward away the few stray drops of
rain which pelted down out of the endless mists and found their way
into his shadowed nook.  It had been a quiet night, all things
considered, one of those nights when he honestly wondered why they
paid him.  Then again, such a night was invariably followed by mayhem
and disaster which perfectly justified his paycheck.

        He briefly consulted his mental schedule.  Yep, sure enough tomorrow
evening was slated for McMahon's characters only.  Never a pretty
sight.  It was always a headachy nightmare trying to screen the
crossover guest stars from the riffraff...and lordy, all those manic
animals--!!!

        The Bouncer finally spared his guest a jaundiced roll of his eyes.
"Eh, characters die all the time.  So what?  They're always back the
next night, raising hell and boasting about their spectacular demises.
The Dead Night party scene gains another patron.  Big freakin' deal.
What's gotten into you, man?  What's with the lowered voice and the
freaky look?"

        The boy didn't seem to notice the fact that he was standing in the
rain.  He was holding a battered, oversized trenchcoat tight around
his lanky frame and his shadowed eyes almost gleamed with intensity.
"Look, I'm serious.  People are disappearing.  For a while it was just
minor characters, so we all figured that maybe they'd found a watering
hole of their own.  Or maybe they'd just faded.  It happens.  But now
no one's seen Celande or Delphi for a week, and last night Jim the
Goth missed the midnight showing of Rocky Horror..."

        "I thought he hated Rocky Horror."

        "He does.  So he never misses the chance to show up and make fun of
the rest of us."  The boy shook himself, spraying water in all
directions.  "That's not the point.  The point is...oh, dammit, you
aren't going to believe a word I say, are you?  Just because I look
like one of LeBeau's bastards..."

        The Bouncer raised his hands appeasingly.  "No, no, that's not it at
all, kid--"

        "Remi."

        "--fine, Remi, I know, whatever.  It's just that you CAN'T kill a
character.  Not really.  Now, maybe if a Writer suddenly disappeared,
there'd be cause to worry..."

        "I KNOW that," Remi growled.  "I'm NOT a newbie, you know.  I've been
around LONGER than you, you poor excuse for a..."  He stopped himself
with an effort and sighed, raking a hand through his soaked shock of
hair.  "Sorry.  I'm sorry.  I'm on edge, that's all.  This is
absolutely, one-hundred-percent serious.  Haven't you noticed the way
folks are huddling around in the Caf‚, refusing to clear out at
night's end?  Well, more so than usual, anyhow.  Even Cosmic is
behaving herself, the little brat.  Why?  Because they're SCARED,
that's why."  Remi leaned forward and poked one long finger into the
Bouncer's chest with each word.  "Something.  Is.  Out.  There."

        The Bouncer merely stared down at the intruding digit until it was
withdrawn.  "To tell the truth, I've been hearing wild rumors about
something like this for a week now.  No one's got any proof.  Hell,
it's probably one big practical joke -- something Falstaff or Keppel
would pull.  You don't seem like the type to believe rumors and ghost
stories, Neramani.  What convinced you all of the sudden?"

        Remi wrapped his arms around himself and shivered in the rain.  He
suddenly looked less like an imperious imperial heir and more like the
lost teenaged boy he was.

        "I've been looking for them for hours.  Renee and Cody, I mean," he
admitted quietly.  "I can't find them anywhere."

        At that, the Bouncer straightened up with a low whistle of amazement.
When characters from the same story, especially ones as close as these
three were, couldn't find each other in a pinch, something WAS wrong.
He'd never heard of anything like it.  With an oath under his breath,
he pushed himself out of his alcove and genially slapped the boy's
shoulder.

        "Come inside, kid," he rumbled, his gravelly voice fairly gentle for
once.  "Let's get to the bottom of this."





* * *





Could it be...an SC multi-parter...?  GASP!  <chuckle> Either I'll
continue this when I feel like it, or someone else can ask to
round-robin it.  Could be fun, either way!  E-mail me if you're
interested...


Credits:

The Bouncer was created by Falstaff, methinks.

Remi Neramani belongs to Valerie Jones -- I hope I got him basically
right, I couldn't find either story in a pinch.  Cody & Renee are from
the same set.

LeBeau (as in Remy) belongs to Marvel

Celande belongs to Ms Marvel

Delphi belongs to Perri Smith

Jim the Goth belongs to Aoife & Arachnid

Cosmic belongs to Kiva Smith Pearson

Martha McMahon, Denise Keppel, and Falstaff are writers and belong to
themselves.  Or so they think, anyhow.

Rocky Horror belongs to Richard O'Brien

Dead Night was also my own creation, and I'm still fond of it.  ;)

Annnnd I sorta came up with the initial Subreality Caf‚ thing, but
it's acquired a life of its own!





.-=K=-.



@@@


Subreality Cafe:  A Cold Dash Of (Sub)Reality

Part Two:  Seeking Help

(Continuing the work of one Kelly "Kielle" Newcomb)

By Falstaff (gratton@worldnet.att.net)



        The office was wood-paneled and somewhat shabby.  Nobody ever seemed
to care.  It was a rented space anyway; a two-room office upstairs
from a Belasco's Donuts and the offices of three demon lawyers named
Scorch, Sizzle and Burn.  That's Limbo for you.  Saints and devils
live side-by-side, living with each other via a simple
you-don't-scratch-my-eyes-out-I-won't-scratch-yours ethic.

        Perhaps the only thing that _wasn't_ shabby about the office was the
door.  It was made almost entirely of pseudo-oak (can't get the real
stuff in Limbo without an import permit from Galactus, a transit
waiver from Belasco, and a stamped certificate from the Subreality
Health Department) with a two-inch-thick window of pebbled glass.  Not
overkill when you consider the profession of the occupants of this
particular hole in the wall.

        'Wisdom and LeBeau,' the window read in bold black lettering.
'Private Investigators.'  And then, in near-tiny lettering, 'No, we
are NOT clones.'  Inside the door, though -- assuming you could
breathe inside the perpetual gray soup of cigarette smoke that
permeated every corner of the inner office -- well, that was a
different story altogether.

        "So what makes you think we can 'elp you, kid?"  the voice spoke
hollowly from the particularly thick bit of smoke that surrounded the
desk.  "I mean, we're 'ardly the most well-equipped blokes hangin' out
a shingle in this part of Limbo."

        "That's true," Remi Neramani said.  "But I've got a problem that
needs solving yesterday, are you getting me?"

        Now the other voice, this one from the office's dark corner, spoke.
"An' y'aren't havin' much luck wit' de more...legitimate type of help
'round here.  Dat what you sayin'?"

        "Yeah, pretty much," the young man nodded.

        "You know we don't work cheap, kid," the one behind the desk said.

        The young man glowered.  "I can pay you, if that's what you're
saying."

        "Never said dat, ami," the scarlet-and-black-eyed man said, grinning
a charming (if somewhat annoying) grin.  "Y'strike me as de type of
young man who know 'is way around."

        And so the kid left, and the two private eyes worked their way down
to street level.  The gaslight on the corner was out, but then -- it's
Limbo.  And it's been going downhill these last few years.  Lack of
proper management, that's the popular consensus.

        "So what do we do from 'ere, Rem?"  Pete Wisdom asked, checking his
watch by the dim light that filtered down from the nearby Subreality
Cafe's neon sign.

        The Cajun detective winced as he lit a cigarette.  "Looks like we go
in dere, ol' friend.  Let's hope dey got some decent food.  I ain't
eatin' any more o'dat fried merde you laughingly call lunch."



Credits:

Remi Neramani belongs to Valerie Jones

Pete Wisdom, P.I., and his partner (who was a police inspector in the
story, but I changed it -- sorry, Patrick!)  Remy LeBeau belong to
Patrick Sahlstr”m.

The Subreality Cafe was created by Kielle and Tapestry.

Anything else (like Belasco's Donuts or Scorch, Sizzle, and Burn:
Attorneys at Law) belongs to me.



I am Falstaff, hear me roar:

I'm too annoying to ignore!

gratton@worldnet.att.net



@@@


A Cold Dash of (Sub)Reality

Part Three:  Waiting For The Hammer To Fall

(Otherwise known as "It's All *Her* Fault!"  ;)

By Tapestry (malfam@inlink.com), based on the thread by Kielle
(kielle@aol.com) that was continued by Falstaff
(gratton@worldnet.att.net)



        Glenn hunched over his drink miserably, staring into the tiny slivers
of ice that had once been cubes.  After a moment he took a small swig,
then replaced it.  It had been sitting in one place for so long the
wooden table now had a ring-shaped water stain.

        Chris Aldred, who had wandered over to talk, uncomfortably cleared
her throat for the fifth time.  She'd been sitting there for fifteen
minutes and he *still* hadn't noticed her.

        "Huh?"  he said dully after a few moments, eyes not moving from the
glass.

        "Um, Glenn, it's me, Blacklight," Chris said, waving her hand in
front of his face.  "Is everything all right?"

        Glenn shook his head.  "No...'s not."

        After another three minutes of silence Chris decided to forgo tact
for results.

        "And just what's wrong?"  she pressed, violet light arcing across her
white t-shirt as she became agitated at his silence.

        "Dawn's gone missing," he replied.  "*All* of her."

        Chris's jaw dropped.  "And which one are you...?"  she couldn't
resist asking.

        "Mainstream.  'Ties story line.  Dawn's been looking for me for
months, and now that I *finally* get back into the groove I miss her
completely."

        Chris stared.  "*She* finally brought you back?  That's great!  Does
Dawn know?!"

        Glenn shot her a dark look.  "I just *said* that I *couldn't find
her*," he said, enunciating carefully.  Then he got out of his chair,
pushing it back with an angry scrape of wood, and clenched his fists
at his sides.  "Bugger *this*.  I came here to get drunk, and I don't
need yer pesterin' me!"  He took a step towards the bar and promptly
tripped over a chair, pitched forward into the nearest table, and was
out like a light once his head hit the edge.

        The Bartender (who had been drafted into working almost every day of
the week now that the patrons were not only refusing to leave but
drinking like nervous fish) shook his head sadly as he looked at the
crumpled form of Glenn Keaton.

        "Some people just can't hold their liquor," the ambiguous entity
said.  Chris looked at Glenn's drink and thought back to his breath.

        "But he only drank half a glass of lager," she pointed out.  "*I* can
drink more than that."

        "I said *some* people.  Glenn, however, is just a klutz."

        "Hmm.  Point taken."

        Nonetheless, Chris scraped the boy off the floor and propped him up
in a chair.  There was a slight gash in his forehead, but it was
healing rapidly, as wounds on mutants with healing factors were wont
to do.  Chris averted her eyes -- it always made her a little nauseous
to watch flesh re-knitting itself.

        "What was that about, anyway?"  the Bartender inquired, cleaning a
glass idly.

        Chris shrugged.  "I'm not really sure.  All he said was that Dawn's
missing..."

        The muted conversation abruptly ceased, and the Bartender dropped
his/her glass.  It shattered near his/her feet with an almost musical
tinkle; he/she didn't seem to notice.

        "Embers...?"  Rebecca Lee whispered in horror.  "They got Dawn?!?!"

        "We're dead!"  Summer moaned from a table in the corner.  The wooden
chair began to glisten with a thin film of frost as the young mutant's
powers began to "leak" out.

        "Hey, wait a minute, what're you guys talking about?!"  Chris
exclaimed as a rush of conversation rose to fill the void.

        "Haven't you heard?"  the Bartender asked incredulously.

        Chris spread her hands defensively.  "I've been away for weeks, what
do you expect?  Now will someone tell me what's going on?"

        There was a brief moment of silence, and then Vic spoke up.
"Ah...fanfic characters have been turning up missing lately," she
answered hesitantly.  "It started with secondary characters, extras
even, but then Celande...and Delphi...and Jim...disappeared.  We
haven't seen any of 'em for days.  And now Dawn..."

        The uneasy muttering resumed as Chris allowed this all to sink in.
She made a quick tally of how many weeks she'd been absent -- at least
four, five easily.  But still, it couldn't have been *that* long,
could it?  Not nearly long enough for something like *this* to happen!

        And close behind these thoughts were those that everyone else was
surely thinking.  _If they got Dawn, then what's to stop them from
taking *us*?_ Chris wondered, appalled.  Dawn was a prime character,
much beloved by her author, in a series that had been going on for two
years and counting.  Never, in all Chris' experience, had there been a
time when at least *one* of Dawn's various incarnations had not been
at the Cafe.  The girl dearly loved the place and would certainly
never have missed the chance to see *her* Glenn again for all the
world, especially given the fact that she only got a chance to talk to
him once every few months.

        Chris surveyed the Cafe quickly.  Was it her imagination, or was the
place looking a little emptier than usual?

        She noticed Shining in the far corner, being unusually quiet.  Chris
followed their collective gaze and realized they were staring at a
discarded mic in a mingling of depression and disbelief.

        _What's wrong with this picture?  Where's...Connor...  Oh, crap._

        Of course, he *could* just have been late, but who could know for
certain?  Chris felt a small chill jog from the base of her spine to
the back of her neck in record time as a hard, cold lump formed in the
pit of her stomach.

        _This is worse than when Misfire told me Laersyn wanted to use me for
a story..._

        "Maybe it's just been warming up," Hotshot said bleakly from his
booth.  "And now it can afford to grab prime characters, like us,
too..."

        "Oh, lighten up, dead-boy," Silver snapped irritably.  "I've only
been in one 'fic in my life and you don't see *me* angsting over how
some big bad entity's going to snatch me up the moment I leave the
Cafe..."

        "Then why don't you step outside and show us all how *un*afraid you
are?!"  Hotshot retorted.  Silver glowered at him menacingly, but made
no move towards the large, scintillating door.

        After a moment Chris' brain caught up with her eyes, and she snapped
her head back towards the door, eyes round with disbelief.  Slowly,
she walked towards it, eyeing it like one might eye a sleeping rhino,
and put a tentative hand on it.

        "Incredible," she breathed.  She turned back to the others.  "Guys,
this *door* is ambiguous.  Does this strike anyone as odd?"

        "Not really," the Bartender informed her.  "There isn't any definite
shape to the Cafe..."

        "Yeah, but you haven't been around from the start," Chris said,
taking a step back and gazing at the door appraisingly.  "Just because
it doesn't stay the same between one day and the next doesn't mean it
changes interior *every second*.  Something very strange is going on
here..."

        She glanced at the various fictives for a moment, then added, "Well,
stranger than usual."

        The fictives eyed the furniture uneasily, their thoughts inevitably
drifting back to grabbing chairs and rubber ducks.  The question had
to be voiced.

        "You don't think it could be Willey again, could it?"  someone
quavered.

        Chris shook her head violently.  "Not a chance.  He's promised to
behave, remember?  And *I* should know.  No, this has gotta be
something else."  She chewed on a hangnail thoughtfully.  "Now, if I
were a force of evil looking for attention, who would *I* grab
next...?"

        There was a moment of silence, then, almost as one--

        "SIKU!"

        Unfortunately, the dramatic moment was ruined as Pete Wisdom and Remy
LeBeau entered the Cafe, the former cursing as the doorknob
dissapeared under his hand and was replaced by wooden paneling.

        Pete looked around at all the blank faces.  "What?"  he asked
irritably.  He got no reply.  He pulled out a box from the folds of
his coat and offered it.  "All right...anyone want a..."  He squinted
at the lable, "Malabolgian Cigar?"

        Remy smacked himself on the forhead and shook his head in despair.




To be continued.

____________________________________________________________________


Author's Credits:  Kielle (Chris Aldred), Falstaff (Rebecca Lee --
yes, *that* one...), Me (Summer Ison), Twist (Vic), Ms.  Marvel
(Celande), Perri Smith (Delphi), Aoife and Arachnid (Jim), Janine
Peterson (Shining), Ben Church (Hotshot), Bluesilver (Silver), Jesse
Willey (himself, natch), Patrick Sahlstrom (Pete and Remy) and, of
course, moi (Glenn and Dawn are *my* mess, excluding Falstaff's AT
alternates.  ;) Malabolge is the eighth or so circle of hell according
to Dante, reserved for frauds, hypocrites, thieves, etc.  It can be
assumed that Remy and Pete are at least vaguely familiar with this
concept.



Notes:  Okay, so it was kind of self-indulgent.  I apologize, but I've
been having a bad week, so allow me this little indulgence, 'kay?  And
in any case, I didn't feel it polite to bump anyone else's fanfic
character out of the running right off the bat.  Anyway, thanks to
Kielle and Falstaff for this idea -- or maybe not, since I've already
got *way* too much on my plate as it is.  <G> Hey, just kidding, guys!
Hope this meets your "qualifications"...


@@@


A Cold Dash of (Sub)Reality

Part Four:  The Hunt Begins...

By Phil Foster (scrumpy@balfourroad.demon.co.uk)



        "So you're here full-time, then?"  the Bouncer asked, leaning
casually against the bar.

"I hope so," the Bartender replied, wiping a glass.  "Depends on
whether the Writers remember or not."

        "Huh.  Writers," the Bouncer grunted, in a disparaging tone.

        "You don't like the Writers?"

        "Can you blame me?  Out of all the Writers we've had, how many have
let me do my job properly?  Christ, the number of times I've been
out-argued, knocked unconcious or just plain removed from the story is
getting ridiculous.  One of them even tried to give me a name a while
ago."

        "What's wrong with that, Mr Car..."

        The Bouncer slammed his fist on the bar, cutting off the name
mid-sentence.  He narrowed his eyes and looked up towards the ceiling.
"Watch it," he growled.

What?

        "That name thing.  That's what."

        What's wrong with giving you a name?  It's not as if it's a bad
one...

        "I've already got one, that's why."

        Oh yeah?  What is it, then?

        "It's..."  The Bouncer cut himself off.  "Oh no, you're not getting
me like that.  I'm not that stupid.  Now get on with the story before
I have to throw you out."

        *sigh*.  I dunno.  Try and flesh out a character and this is the
gratitude I get.  Jeez...

        "So yeah, I should be here full-time," the Bartender said,
effortlessly slipping back into the plot.  "I hope so, anyway.
Co-existing with the Manager was getting awkward for both of us."
She/he put away the glass and started polishing another one.  "You all
ready for tonight?"

        "Pretty much.  At least the crowd we've got coming don't cause any
trouble -- they've got problems enough of their own.  See ya."  With a
last glare at the ceiling the Bouncer strode out the door to take up
his usual position.

        The Bartender watched him go with a slight twinge of jealousy.  Yeah,
the Bouncer had problems, but at least *he* didn't have to put up with
this cross-gender thing all the time.  He/she sighed and moved up the
bar to where a couple of customers were beginning to mill.

        She/he began to feel the worry again as the Writer dropped the
sub-plot and remembered what the story was supposed to be about.  The
news that they'd got Dawn had struck everyone hard, and the recent
rumours that Siku hadn't been seen for a while didn't do anything to
help the quiet panic that permeated the atmosphere.  Of course the
worst thing was that no-one knew who 'they' were...




        "Two more whiskies, mate," Pete called out from further down the bar
where he and Remy had taken over two bar stools.  He turned towards
his drinking partner.  "Reckon it's time to try the cigarettes again?"

        "May as well try, neh?"

        "Right."  Taking a deep breath Pete dug his hand deep into a
trenchcoat pocket and drew out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.  He
breathed out a sigh of relief as he saw the familiar Silk Cut logo he
knew and loved.  "Looks like they've switched to a Writer who smokes.
About bleedin' time."

        "Dat so?  In dat case Gambit gonna try his.  He *really* need a
smoke."

        Pete sighed.  "Well, he smokes, but his Cajun accent is crap..."

        The two detectives had been at the bar for a while, following the
time-honoured detective technique of sitting in a pub/cafe until an
obvious clue walked in the door and said hello to them.  Unfortunately
the obvious clue had utterly failed to materialise and they were
beginning to realise that the Writer had no intention of letting them
out that easily.  After downing his latest whisky Remy turned to Pete.

        "I t'ink we're gon' have to start asking some questions, mon ami," he
said, wincing at the sound of his accent.

        "Bleedin' typical," Pete grunted.  "Just do us both a favour an' let
me ask them, before your accent gets any worse."  Offering up a silent
prayer for a new chapter soon, Remy nodded his agreement.

        Pete stood up and turned to face the cafe.  "Right, does anyone know
how many've gone missin'?"

        "We're not sure," Chris said.  "It's difficult to tell as some people
don't come here that often anyway."

        "But the definite ones so far are Delphi, Celande, Jim, Renee and
Cody."  Vic's voice sounded thick from his darkened corner.

        "You forgot Dawn," Glenn growled from where he was slumped in a
chair.  "No-one's seen any of her for over a week now."

        "And Siku," Chris said.  "She hasn't been seen for a while."

        "So it's only fic-characters so far?"  Pete asked.  "No mainstream?"

        Vic snorted.  "You think anyone's powerful enough to get any of
*them*?"

        Remy fixed him with a glare.  "You try bein' written by Lobdell, then
come an' say that."

        "Do you think that could be it?"  Summer Ison piped up.  "Do you
think the mainstream writers are doing something to us?"

        "Doubt it," Pete responded, gratefully lighting up a second Silk Cut.
"This is too systematic, and none of them lot have the brains to
organise it."  He pondered for a moment.  "Just a thought, but have
any of the TCP fics gone missing?"

        The cafe fell silent as everyone thought.  The TCP characters tended
to keep themselves to themselves; being one-story-only they sometimes
felt left-out when hanging around more established characters.

        "I saw Jess Murphy a couple of days ago," Glenn said.  "Buggered up
my watch as soon as she got close to me."

        "Did she say anything about missing people?"  Pete asked.

        "Nah, not that I remember."

        Pete glanced over to Remy.  "Worth checking out."

        They both got up to leave but were stopped by the Bartender.  "Hey,
before you go, there was a letter through the post for you this
morning.  I nearly forgot."  She/he handed a small brown envelope to
Pete, his name being printed on the front of it.

        Pete opened it and read through the note inside.  Wordlessly he
handed it over to Remy, who drew in a sharp breath as he took in the
message.  "Looks like the Writer went for a plot device after all,
neh?"

        "What is it?"  Glenn asked.  "Is it from whoever's behind this?"

        Remy handed the note to him.  It was a list of the names of all the
missing characters, each one with a line drawn through it.  At the
bottom was the signature, written in expansive flowery script.  One
word.

        TIC.



* * *


OK, credit time.


Kielle (Chris Aldred and the whole thing)

Tapstry (Dawn Embers and Glenn)

Perri Smith (Delphi and Jess Murphy)

Valerie Jones (Renee and Cody)

Darqstar (Siku)

Me (Summer Ison)

Twist (Vic)

Ms Marvel (Celande)

Aoife and Arachnid (Jim)

Patric Sahlstrom (Pete and Remy)

And the beginning reference to the Bouncer's name is from Falstaff's
story "What's in a Name?"  which in turn references my other SC story.
Hey, I had to get something of mine in here somewhere...*grin*



Y'know, we should start a competition.  Who can get the longest list
of credits...?


Phil


@@@


A Cold Dash Of (Sub)Reality

Part Five:  Fraying At The Edges

By Kelly "Kielle" Newcomb (kielle@aol.com)


As usual, credits/disclaimers are at the foot of this story to avoid
ruining any surprises.  The rest of the other Subreality madness can
be found at http://members.aol.com/Image89302/cafe.html


THE STORY SO FAR:  For once, it's nowhere near "business at usual" at
the Subreality Cafe.  First a few minor characters went missing, no
one that anyone really noticed anyway.  However, now major characters
are starting to vanish when folks' backs are turned, and the
Subreality patrons are getting a wee bit frightened.  What's going on?
Why?  More importantly, who's next?  A desperate Remi Neramani from
"Paradox Law" has sought the authorities...but that comes in later.
For now...



        "Bloody HELL!"  Adam DuFeus not only jumped out of his seat, he
scrambled right over the table in front of him, knocking Fletcher's
Pepsi into her lap and nearly driving a fork into his knee before he
reached the other side.

        By then his partner was also on her feet, cursing and futilely trying
to scrape ice and cold soda off of her jeans before it soaked in.
"Adam, what on EARTH--"

        "The chair."  Adam turned and pointed accusingly at the seat he'd
just vacated.  "It...moved.  I swear it moved.  Changed, sorta..."  He
raked his fingers through his hair, suddenly embarrassed.  "Well, it
startled me."

        As she warily sat back down, Angel "Don't Call Me Angel" Fletcher
squinted over at the item of furniture in question, as did the
inhabitants of several nearby tables -- Adam's sudden clawing
clattering leap from his seat and his subsequent proclamation had been
far from subtle.  She blinked and looked closer, glancing to nearby
chairs for confirmation.  She didn't know what it had looked like
before but it was definitely of an unusual style, with a puckered blue
cushion and ornate clawed feet.  Even as she watched, the claws flexed
against the floorboards and then simplified.

        And then her own simple wooden chair abruptly sprouted arms.

        Fletcher squeaked and tensed, but the new arms didn't do anything
beyond making an unexpected appearance.  She tested them with her
elbows; they seemed to be harmless pieces of wood.  In fact, they were
rather comfortable.  She glanced around the Cafe surreptiously to see
if anyone else was having similar experiences.  Only then did she
notice the shimmering door...the mismatched lights and the
structurally impossible variances in ceiling height...and the fact
that some windows glimmered with moonlight and others spilled sunlight
into the Cafe.

        Not to mention the fact that each puddle of sunlight entered at a
different angle.

        "'Scuse me, Adam.  Be right back."  The red-haired girl got up and
sauntered over to the bar, trying to look nonchalant.  The Manager was
shuffling through tabs, but as the character approached s/he set them
aside and turned on his/her "good host" face.  "Ah, Ms.  Fletcher.  We
don't see you at the Cafe very often nowadays.  How can I help you?"

        She leaned forward so she could speak quietly and still be heard.
"What's going in in here?  Is it dangerous?  Should we leave?  I mean,
the windows, the door...the chairs..."  A horrid thought struck her.
"It's not Willey, is it?"

        "No, not this time."  The Manager spoke in a lowered voice, too.
"It's just an unusually bad case of ambiguousity."

        "What?"

        "Ambiguousity.  You know how this place looks different every time
you come in?"

        "No, I...wait...maybe.  Perhaps a bit."  Fletcher nodded hesitantly.
She hadn't noticed it before, but now that he mentioned it...  Why
hadn't she noticed it before?

        The Manager smiled kindly and replied like a mindreader.  "Because
you're a character.  You're not supposed to worry about what
everything looks like.  It's like a protective blind spot.  Every
Writer and every Reader imagines this place differently...and they
picture YOU a hundred different ways, too.  If you noticed, you'd
probably go mad."

        "But I'm noticing something now!  Come to think of it, how come YOU
know about it?"

        "Oh, that.  Myself and the Cafe staff, we're part of it.  So we're
used to it.  As for your first comment...I can't be sure, but I'd be
willing to bet that it's because you and Adam are the oldest fictives
in here tonight.  That gives you an 'edge,' so to speak."

        "I...ummm...okay, look, I'm still not comfortable with all this weird
Subreality stuff, so I'll have to take your word on that.
But...surely things don't usually change randomly like this."

        "True.  But these are special circumstances.  The problem is--" here
the Manager lowered his/her voice even further, forcing Fletcher to
lean very close to listen "--several Writers are handling this place
at once right now.  Something called a 'round bluebird' or somesuch.
It could get a little...chaotic."

        "As if matters couldn't get any worse," Fletcher muttered sourly.
"Did you hear the latest?  Hotshot's gone.  And both Images, which
means that the Reclamation Squad is down to just Perkolater.  Why
doesn't somebody DO something?!?"

        "Some of us HAVE been trying t'do somet'ing, chere," a tired
Cajun-laced voice replied from the Cafe door.  A female voice, not the
usual male one, which meant only one person.  Fletcher glanced over to
meet the distinctive amber catseyes of Arcadia Benoit.  She was calmly
stripping off a thick woollen coat and scarf as a half-dozen or so
similarly-clad fictives tromped into the Cafe right on her heels.
Most were likewise dressed as if for bad weather, but as they too shed
their outer wrappings Fletcher realized that the oddly-assorted group
consisted of mainly trackers and telepaths, including Monica "Synth"
Webber, the strange feline creature known only as "Hunt-Cat," and a
very gloomy Glenn Keaton.

        Obviously, a search party.

        Most of these newcomers headed off to a dark back booth, deep in
somber conversation, but Cadie made a beeline for the Manager.  She
slid onto the stool next to Fletcher and propped her chin up on her
fists.  By the slump of her shoulders she was the very picture of
misery, but her expression was under strict control:  neutral, almost
bored.

        Her expression, Fletcher decided, was a complete lie.

        The Manager set a shot of bourbon on the bar in front of the young
Cajun and patted her hand sympathetically.  "Nothing?"

        Cadie wasn't generally the drinking type -- a thief had to keep her
wits about her at all times, after all -- but as usual the
Manager/Bartender had judged her mood perfectly.  The shot vanished in
an instant.  "Much worse.  We FOUND somet'ing."

        A cold shiver ran down Fletcher's back at that bleak reply.  Images
of bodies ran through her mind...then her mind skipped a track and she
irrationally found herself thinking of that thing in that "Neverending
Story" movie.  What was it called?  "The Nothing," that was it.  Could
something like that be what was wrong with subreality...?

        "You know how every now an' den an unwritten fictive stumbles into
the Cafe?"  Cadie explained, still utterly calm.  "Like Maeveen
Juniper or dat nice Susanne girl?  The ones who don' really exist yet?
We t'ink we foun' where dey hang out.  It's a big place waaaay out on
de very edge a'de mists, practically UNreality, but it's dere."  She
gave the Manager a hard meaningful look.  "An' it's deserted.
Unfurnished, fallin' down, an' completely empty."

        "Then the problem's much worse than we thought," the Manager said
very quietly.

        The third member of their little barside gathering sighed noisily,
disrupting the dark atmosphere.  "Sorry to sound like a convenient
plot device here, but would someone please explain what's going on?"

        The Manager and Cadie exchanged a wary glance.  Cadie cleared her
throat uneasily.  "I don' really know if this should be gettin' 'round
de Cafe jus' yet..."

        Fletcher bristled.  "Hey!  Are you calling me a gossip, Benoit...?!"

        "Don't make a scene, Angel.  I'LL tell you what's going on."  A weary
Monica Webber plunked into the stool at Fletcher's other elbow.  The
TCP schoolteacher looked drained, and well she should have -- she'd
probably strained her synaesthesic abilities to the limit on the trail
of clues to the disappearances.  "We were so busy worrying about
ourselves that no one noticed that we weren't the hardest hit by
whatever's going on out there.  We tend to look down on the
pre-fictives because they aren't finished...not 'real.'" She snorted.
"'Real.'  It's funny, really.  Like we're such good judges of what's
real and what isn't.

        "Think about it, Angel.  Weren't we all just unwritten half-conceived
fragments at some point?  What happens now that fictives are
vanishing...and there ARE no more unwritten dreams and ideas to
someday replace them with new characters -- new stories?"

        Fletcher gaped at her for a moment, too distracted to complain about
the repeated use of her first name.  Then she smiled as if in relief,
shaking her head.  "Oh no, now that's just silly.  Writers NEVER run
out of ideas, and even if they did, there'd always be new ones.  Maybe
you're wrong about what you found -- I mean, it's not like there was a
big neon sign out front proclaiming it to be the 'Club Concepto' or
something."

        "Actually," Cadie replied dryly, "dere was."

        Any further speculation was cut off by a clumping of boots at the
door.  The Manager cast an eye in that direction and groaned under
his/her breath.  "Oh, not again.  One of these days I really do have
to do something about him."

        The three characters glanced at each other and then peered obediently
over.  When Cadie laid eyes on the person in question, she actually
lightened up enough to chuckle.  "Ah oui...HIM.  So why DON' you do
somet'ing about de man?"

        The Manager fixed her with a steely glare.  "For some reason, the
Bouncer always lets him in, and for some reason I always let him stay.
And if any of you say that we're biased because he created us, well,
I'm not going to deign to answer.  Now if you'll excuse me, I have to
finish yesterday's paperwork before closing."  He/she added more
gently, "Cadie...I'll see what I can come up with.  No guarantees."



        In a far corner, beyond the stage and the pool table (which showed up
on Tuesdays and Thursdays, barring full moons) other denizens of the
Cafe had different ideas about how to go about solving the matter of
the disappearing fictives.

        "I don't know what you're talking about.  You can't DO this to me!  I
have rights!  Forget that, I've got a computer!  I'll write you into a
pay-per-view slaughterfest versus Sabretooth, I swear I will!  UNTIE
ME!!!"

        "Miss McKee, I promise I'll untie you the second you spill me
everything you know about TIC."

        The Writer merely narrowed her eyes and glared up at the
chain-smoking detective, ignoring the small curious crowd which had
gathered around them.  "Ever been disemboweled in the snow, Wisdom?  I
don't care if you're under Sahlstrom's protection, I'll do it and you
KNOW it.  For the last time, I don't have the slightest clue what
you're talking about.  Does this have something to do with that
paranoid dork on Jelpy's guestbook a while back?"

        Rather than replying aloud, Wisdom held the list before her eyes --
the list of crossed-out character names with the elaborate "TIC"
signature at the bottom.  She squinted crossly at it.  "Oh.  Hmm.  I
dunno, maybe it stands for 'Think I Care?'  or 'Twist Is Crazy.'  Now
Let.  Me.  Go."

        Wisdom was about to press her further when LeBeau sighed and made a
flicking motion behind the Writer's back.  The ropes fell away -- Lisa
"bum" McKee leaped to her feet, rubbing her wrists and scowling.
"Don't think I'll forgive this, 'mate,'" she growled at Wisdom.  "Next
time you're in one of my stories--"

        "Like that'll ever happen," LeBeau muttered.

        "--I'll give you a Cockney accent so thick that you'll have to pinch
your tongue between your fingers to be understood.  And you thought
RAAB was bad!  You'll WISH I'd dumped your intestines into a
snowdrift!"

        As the disgruntled Writer shoved her way through the crowd and
departed, Wisdom sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  "All
right, Cajun, who do we drag in for questioning next?  Maybe Mirage --
can we even get an non-Writer Archivist in here, is that possible?"

        "Has it occurred to you, mon ami," Detective LeBeau said carefully,
"that we're getting nowhere fast?"  He and Wisdom had been hired for
this investigation by Remi Neramani, and what had appeared to be a
simple case of two misplaced secondary characters had snowballed into
something truly ugly.  LeBeau was still ruefully nursing the black eye
the Scribe had given him for even implying that she had anything to do
with the slow decimation of the Cafe's patronage.  And they still had
no leads except for the mysterious "TIC" letter...

        "Has it occurred to you, oh great Dee-tek-tive, that maybe you're
scooting your little caboose along the wrong track entirely...?"  a
singsong voice called from the shadows up among the rafters.  A moment
later a tall angular boy with a wild shock of hair leaped nimbly to
the floor below.

        "Who the hell--"

        "Psychopath's the name, gyring and gimballing is the game!"  With a
manic grin, the bizarre character sketched an elaborate bow to the two
trenchcoated investigators.  The loose ring of spectators was backing
away while trying to not be too obvious about it.  "Don't worry if
you've never heard of me, I never made it into a finished story,
probably because of those ugly little copyright problems, come to
think of it -- pity my Writer isn't on speaking terms with my Creator,
you should know how THAT is...

        "Ah, but enough about moi."  The self-proclaimed "Psychopath" paused
just long enough to treat his audience to an ear-to-ear Evil Ernie
grin, revealing an alarming number of teeth.  "Guess what?  Happy
April Fool's Day!"

        Wisdom's eyes narrowed and then went icy as he spotted the neon
purple pen tucked behind the kid's ear.

        A pen the exact same shade of the letter's flowery script.

        For the first time in a long time, Detective Pete Wisdom lost it.
"FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, IT'S THE MIDDLE OF OCTOBER!!!"

        The kid blinked, wide-eyed and innocent.  "Not in my world it
isn't...or one of them anyway...  Did I mention that I like lemmings?
Especially the sugar-coated pink ones.  Isn't it a nice day to be
insane?  You should try it sometime.  You are WAAAAAY too tense, Mr.
Constantine."

        "Const--?  Ohhhh, that tears it.  That ruddy well tears it!  GET THE
LITTLE BASTARD!"


        Angel Fletcher twisted on her barstool to gawk in amazement as a tall
bony guy zipped past in a flailing blur of elbows and knees, trailing
a trill of mad laughter in his wake.  Right on his heels in hot
pursuit were two familiar-looking guys in trenchcoats and a pack of
fictives who were doing their best impression of a baying lynch mob
sans torches and pitchforks.  Though Fletcher did spot a few nooses.

        As the commotion swarmed out the front door, she shrugged and jumped
down from her seat and dashed outside to find out what was going on.

        Hell, it was better than sitting around angsting...




        Ten minutes later, when the tired but immensely more cheerful mob
surged back into the Cafe, Angel Fletcher was not with them.  As the
word spread, it became apparant that no one, not even her
partner-in-crime Adam DuFeus, knew where she was.

        As the bad news sank in, Adam turned a distinctly unhealthy shade of
pale.  Exuding the unnatural tranquillity of a person in shock, the
boy shoved his dirty-blond hair out of his eyes, stood up, tugged on
his coat, and walked woodenly out into the mists with a determined set
to his jaw.  No one could stop him.  No one expected him to come back

        They were right.




* * *


An hour later...


        Rem'aillon Neramani was still having the worst day of his life, and
it showed no sign of improving any time soon.  For the moment, he was
sitting bracketed by the two chain-smoking detectives Wisdom and
LeBeau, who had finally perked up after the TIC fiasco and were
discussing the new ramifications of the case of the missing fictives
with great gusto.  Remi didn't know which was worse, the
nicotine-flavored miasma in the air or the barrage of rapid-fire
accents assaulting him from both sides.  The heir to the Shi'ar Empire
slouched lower in his chair, trying to tune out the thick British and
Cajun assaults on his poor aching ears.  Why couldn't everyone have
nice normal non-mangled pronunciation like his mother's people...?

        Still, he felt obligated to at least attempt to keep up with the
conversation, because the lives of two of his best friends could
depend on the gumshoes' findings.  The absence of his fellow
characters Cody and Renee twisted his stomach into a square knot
whenever he allowed himself to think about it.

        <At least Rache is out of harm's way,> he thought with a sigh of
relief, letting his mind momentarily wander to the fourth member of
their timelost quartet.  Rachel Summers was currently visiting her
parents (or at least the original versions thereof) in the Mainstream
Cafe, and so far she seemed shielded by the fact that she was almost a
mainstream character herself.  That was something Remi had realized
soon after returning to the Cafe with Wisdom and LeBeau:  only
original characters were vanishing.  The "real" characters, the
standard Wolverines and Icemen and Storms who had not truly deviated
from the originals seemed immune to the problem so far.  However, the
wilder variants lacked their more staid counterparts' "protection."
Just that morning Sabine Roberts -- a non-mutant Elseworlds version of
Rogue -- had been added to the growing list of MIA characters.

        <Rachel's practically mainstream.  She's safe,> Remi repeated to
himself like a comforting mantra.  Her fate in their latest story had
hurt badly enough.  He couldn't stand the thought of losing her for
real.  <She's safe...>

        He didn't realize that he'd sunk his head into the warm protective
hollow formed by his folded arms until the table jolted under him,
jogging his chin.  He raised his head a fraction to peer out through
the curls of smoke which now wreathed that particular corner of the
Cafe.  Then he raised his head a little more, frowning slightly at the
newcomer to the table.  If he wasn't mistaken...

        "Hello -- you're Falstaff, are you not?"

        "Hmmm?  Oh yes, yes, that's me."  The fellow with the reddish-brown
beard waved an absent greeting without tearing his eyes from his
screen -- he was quite thoroughly engrossed in the contents of a
laptop computer, which was remarkable seeing as he'd only sat down
seconds before.

        Remi took advantage of his distraction to study the stranger
carefully, for he personally didn't tend to have much contact with any
Writers other than his own.  (Said contact usually consisted of his
pleas for mercy falling upon deaf ears...but we digress.)  Remi
admitted to a sneaking curiosity about what exactly made a Writer
different from a fictive in the Cafe -- everyone could instinctively
tell the difference, but no one could quite explain it.  After all, it
wasn't as if Writers glowed or wore halos.  In fact, they tended to
look perfectly normal compared to their fictional creations.

        Despite being one of the most prolific Writers in the realm, this
Falstaff fellow looked even more "normal" than usual.  His hair was
sticking haphazardly up over his ears and there were dark circles
under his eyes; every few words, he paused in his typing to stifle a
yawn.  Half of his typing seemed to consist of backing up over errors,
anyhow.

        Remi watched his halting progress, terribly curious to see a story
created and trying not to be obvious about it, but no story seemed to
be forthcoming.  Finally Falstaff slammed both hands into his keyboard
with a frustrated oath and slapped the screen halfway down.  He
pressed the heels of his palms into his bloodshot eyes and leaned on
his elbows with a heavy sigh.

        Remi cleared his throat politely.  "Sir...are you all right?"

        "Sure, I'm...no, I guess I'm not," Falstaff admitted wearily, not
uncovering his eyes.  Remi had heard that he was witty and charming,
in his own unique fashion; none of that famed wit or charm was
apparent in this very tired, suddenly very ordinary-looking man.
"Work is hell, I'm falling behind in my classes, I can't sleep, and I
have writer's block."

        The Writer sighed again, softly this time; without looking, he
removed one hand from his face and closed his laptop with a decisive
click.  His revealed eye was closed; he didn't open it to meet Remi's
puzzled gaze as he spoke.  "I...guess I just don't have time for this
any more."

        And then he was gone.

        Simply...vanished.

        Remi sat straight up in shock as the two detectives on either side of
him abruptly ceased their chattering discussion.  Sure, characters
vanished in mid-word all the time when they were summoned to work in a
story.  But Writers invariably came and went on their own two feet,
through the door or the window or the emergency exit or, on one
memorable occasion, through the skylight.

        In his experience, Writers did NOT disappear.

        "Are they supposed to do that?"  Remi asked hesitantly.

        "Hell no," LeBeau and Wisdom answered, for once in perfect unison.

        "At least not major Writers, not in here," Wisdom added.  "Sure,
one-shot-wonders pop off all the time, but silly little buggers like
that don't even come in here.  They just...go away."

        "Dis," LeBeau said darkly, "is tres, tres mal."

        "Tell me something I DON'T know," Remi groaned, dropping his forehead
back into the shelter of his folded arms.



* * *


To be continued...maybe even concluded!  Yes, I DO have an ending in
mind.  ;) Anyone who wants to write the next part or a tangent should
thus contact me first to make sure that we don't get our wires
crossed.  (At least two lore parts are in the works or done that I
know of at the time this was posted...)  Otherwise, I'm more than
ready to put a cap on this baby and put it to bed.  In fact...it's
already written.  And it's quite surreal.  Bwah hah hah!



CREDITS


REAL PEOPLE:  Jesse Willey, Twist, Patrick Sahlstrom, Jelpy, and
Mirage belong to themselves.  The Scribe is yours truly, who simply
couldn't resist the chance to bap LeBeau just this once.  Falstaff
okayed his appearance in this one and even commented on how scarily
accurate (in an exaggerated fashion, of course) my depiction was.
Spooky!  Bum, on the other hand, was not consulted about her
appearance in here and is probably going to kill me...  Hey, cut me
some slack, how often do I write Writers?  Bloody never!


* Adam & Angel (from the old classic "Daddy's LIttle Fallen Angel")
belong to Nimue Morin, who wrote them under the monicker "The Magical
Mouse" if that helps

* The Manager & the Bouncer were created by Falstaff

* Hotshot belongs to Ben Church

* One Image belongs to "Image" Chaffin

* The other Image plus the Reclamation Squad and Perkolater belong to
David J. Warner

* Arcadia "Cadie" Benoit belongs to Ro

* Monica Webber belongs to the Me who isn't me

* Hunt-Cat belongs to Martha McMahon

* The gratuitous mention of Glenn Keaton belongs to Tapestry

* Maeveen Juniper belongs to Celendra

* Susanne belongs to CynJen

* These versions of Pete Wisdom and Remy LeBeau belong to Patrick
Sahlstrom, though Falstaff messed with them a little bit en route to
this tale

* TIC is and shall always remain a mystery

* Psychopath belongs to non-online guy Mike Murphy and only exists in
several of my own unposted stories, so I apologize for his
out-of-left-field appearance, but I couldn't think of anyone else who
would pull such a senseless prank...

* If you haven't heard the phrase "gyre and gimbal," you SERIOUSLY
need to read some classics

* John Constantine belongs to DC Comics

* Remi, Renee, Cody, and this version of Rachel belong to the esteemed
Valerie Jones (come on, Val, you KNOW you want to write one of
these...feeeeeeel the power of the Dark Side, young Jedi...

* Sabine Roberts belongs to Alexandra Nigro

* Stuff like Wolverine, Iceman, Storm, Rogue, Rachel Summers, Ben
Raab, and the Sh'iar belong to Marvel and are only being used here to
provide a frame of reference

* Other elements of this story arc were introduced by Falstaff,
Tapestry, and Phil Foster.  Thanks, guys.



@@@


A Cold Dash of (Sub)Reality

Part Six:  You Can't Blame This On Me!

By Falstaff (gratton@worldnet.att.net)




        "Dial it _again,_ Leonard."

        T-h-a-t-'-s t-h-e t-h-i-r-d t-i-m-e.  T-h-e-r-e-'-s n-o-b-o-d-y
t-h-e-r-e-, B-o-s-s.

        The Manager shook his/her head, scowling darkly.  "The Writers' Cafe
is _never_ deserted, Leonard.  There's got to be some explanation for
this mess."  He/she turned to the three full-length framed portraits
behind the bar.  "I don't suppose you have anything to say?"

        The rightmost, the one with the plaque reading 'Tapestry,' shrugged.
"You know I can't tell you.  Sorry."

        'Kielle,' in the centermost frame, sadly shook her head.  "No can do.
There are rules about this sort of thing."

        [Well,] he/she thought, [when all else fails, there's the one Writer
who pays absolutely no attention to the rules.] He/she wrinkled
his/her brow.  [Excepting Willey.  But Willey doesn't count, anyway;
not in this situation.]

        With a small swelling of hope, he/she turned to the final portrait,
the one labeled 'Falstaff.'  He/she opened his/her mouth to ask the
question.  But even as he/she did, she saw it.  The third portrait,
the one that usually held the image of a short, portly young man with
a reddish-brown beard and an antique, battered bowler hat, was blank.
As white as the day it was painted -- not a mark on the canvas.

        He/she shook his/her head.  "I've said it before and I'll say it
again:  I've got a very bad feeling about this."        

        Suddenly, the door burst open.  In stalked a rather short young woman
dressed in Nordic battle-armor, her strawberry-blonde hair held back
in a businesslike braid beneath her sturdy steel helmet.  "Where are
they?"  she fumed angrily.  "Where?"

        The Bouncer, a swift step behind her, glanced apologetically to the
Manager.  "Sorry, Boss.  She's quicker than she looks."

        "It's all right," the Manager said, nodding his/her head.  "Now," she
said, addressing the young woman, "who is it that you're looking for?"

        The warrior stopped, narrowing her eyes as she scanned the crowd.
"The ones called Wisdom and LeBeau.  I was told they would be here."

        "Okay," the Manager said in his/her most placating 'the customer is
always right' voice, "Which Wisdom and LeBeau?  There have to be at
least twenty Wisdoms and -- oh, maybe ninety LeBeaus here in a given
week."  [In a _typical_ given week.]

        Jaw tightening, the warrior's hand flashed out and grasped the
Manager's throat.  "Do not mock me, servitor," she growled, biting off
each word.  "You know the ones that I am seeking.  Now answer my
question:  where are they?"

        Behind her, the Bouncer coughed discreetly.  "Don't do that.  You're
a decent patron, Valkyrie.  Don't make me have to toss you out of
here.  Not tonight.  Not during this mess."

        In one fluid motion, the warrior removed her hand from the Manager's
throat and slammed it down onto the bar.  "Where is she?"  she
whispered in a voice like iron.  A single tear -- of frustration,
sadness, anger, you ask?  Perhaps all three and a few more things
besides -- formed in her right eye.  "Have either of you seen her or
heard tell of where she has gone?"

        The Bouncer shook his head, laying a comradely hand on her shoulder.
"Sorry, Mist.  No luck.  Haven't seen your lady since...hell, since
before that first silliness with Willey, when you were both in here
together."

        "And the Carcinogen Twins are down at the Bailiwick, trying to con
one of the Sinisters into helping out in the investigation," the
Manager said.

        As the Valkyrie slowly nodded, there was a resounding boom as the
Cafe's door burst open.  The aforementioned Carcinogen Twins, private
eyes Pete Wisdom and Remy LeBeau -- ever-present cloud of Silk Cut and
Marlboro smoke in their wake -- stamped in, shaking the snow from
their overcoats.  Behind them loomed a man with ice-pale skin and
blood-red lips.

        Mr.  Sinister raised a single eyebrow.  "What a pathetic excuse for a
pub," he said in a neutral voice.  "I shall have one glass of dry gin
over ice, if you please.  This fellow that so resembles my #713
assures me that this place's appearance is misleading.  Let us test
his theory, shall we?"

        Suddenly a heavy hand landed on the Manager's shoulder.  "Boss!"  the
Bouncer gasped, panic filling his wide, flat face.  "The Cook's gone!"

        The Manager swallowed hard, the blood draining from his/her face.  [I
thought we were immune.  I thought, of all the fictives, Cook and
Bouncer and I were gonna come through without a scratch.] He/she
placed his/her hands on bar, barely aware of their trembling.
[Laersyn's fangs,] he/she thought.  [This is not good.  This is
extraordinarily not good.]



CREDITS

The Manager, the Bouncer, the Cook, the Three Talking Portraits, and
Leonard the Subreality Telephone belong to me.

Tapestry, Kielle, Laersyn (and presumably his fangs as well), Jesse N.
Willey, and myself are all self-owned.

Mist the Valkyrie and the version of Danielle Moonstar she's searching
for are from "Kid Dynamo" by Connie Hirsch.  I finally read this
recently, and was blown away.  I don't suppose there's a sequel in the
works?

Wisdom and LeBeau, private eyes, belong to Patrick Sahlstr”m -- though
the Cajun was a police inspector in the original work.

This particular Mr.  Sinister belongs to Lori McDonald, seeing as how
he's from her "Experiment #713 series.

The Villains' Bailiwick also belongs to me.

The Cafe itself strictly _belongs_ to all of us, but it was created by
Kielle and Tapestry.

 
'There came gliding in the black night the walker

in darkness . . . . from the moor under the mist-hills

Grendel came walking, wearing God's anger.'

---the Lay of Beowulf


Yours,

Falstaff

(gratton@worldnet.att.net)


@@@


A Cold Dash of (Sub)Reality

Part Seven:  Um...  Is This The Wrong Number?

By Tapestry (malfam@inlink.com)




From:  The Malnassy Family (malfam@inlink.com)

Date:  Wednesday, October 15, 5:02 PM   

To:  Subreality Cafe (sc@subreality.net.com)

Subject:  Guess who's in Tap's house!



        [Er.  Hi.  Um, getting a e-mail from a fanfic character from this
address is kind of unusual, I know, but it can't be helped.  Anyway,
she just thought this should be known, and since she's currently--]

        Sound of a loud crash in the background.  Karen Smith inches the
rolling stool just a little closer to the wall.

        [...she's...currently...um...a little preoccupied...she suggested I
should write this.]

        Another crash.  This time it's closer.

        [Um, I'd better hurry up.  Well, 'fact is my Writer seems to be going
a little insane at the moment.  And not the fun, ditzy kind of insane
either.  I think she needs a little vacation--] *CRASH* [--okay, a BIG
vacation.  But at the moment she's wrapped up in school work, so will
be unable to pick up the next part of Cold Dash.]

        There is hysterical sobbing in the background.  Karen winces.
"Mother of...Shrive, can you try to get her leg out of the dishwasher,
please?  Thank you."  [Um, where was I...?  Oh yeah.  Anyway, Shrive
and I are over here looking after her while she recovers.  Yeah, we
know it's against the rules, but hey, she hasn't killed either of *us*
yet.  And we owe her.]

        She paused for a moment, nibbling on a hangnail, then added, [Hey,
has anyone in the Cafe seen Verney lately?  I know he doesn't get out
much, but he never came home Tuesday, and I know our Writer isn't
using him--]

        "OW!  GET HER OFF!  GET HER OFF MY HAND!!"

        "In a minute, Shrive!  Let me finish typing--"

        "NOT THE NAILS!  NOOO--ARRRRGHHHHH!"

        "Shrive, *shut up*!  I can't hear myself think over here!"

        "I CAN SEE BONE!  I SWEAR I CAN SEE TO THE BONE!  KAREN, HELLLLLLP!"

        She pushed the stool away from the desk with an air of exasperation.
"Fine, but only if you stop shouting.  'Poccy's going to be down on
you like a ton of bricks if he hears you.  Jeez, take *one minute* to
write a letter and all hell breaks loose.  What is it now, Shrive?"

        "SHE WON'T LET GO OF--"

        "NO CAPS!"

        "SHE-- she won't get her nails out of my arm..."

        "Baby.  Get over here."

        "Owowowowowowowow!"

        "You're such a wimp.  Now go to the bathroom and get some gauze for
that."

        Shrive slunk down the hallway, clutching his bleeding arm.  The
Writer, in the meantime, was curled up in the middle of the kitchen
floor, various limbs and dark clothing tangled in chairs and kitchen
utensils.

        "I want to write..."  she moaned.  "I reallyreallyrealllyreally wanna
write..."

        "You," Karen informed her, "are delerious.  *Very* delerious.  And
you need to--" she swallowed hard; the next few words would cost her
dearly, "--you need to do your Civics assignment.  *And* your English
paper."

        "But it *huuuurts*..."

        "It's the chocolate talking.  Trust me.  And doing your Algebra and
German wouldn't hurt either."

        "I owe 'Staff panel art..."

        Karen gritted her teeth in alarm, mind wandering back to the letter
from said Writer that had appeared a few hours earlier.  It had said,
"Good-bye, cruel net" and little else.

        "Er...Falstaff's not...coming...back," she forced through clenched
teeth.

        "WHAT?"  She bolted upright.  A fork flew out of her hair and hit
Karen in a metal shin.

        "He's too -- busy to carry on."

        The Writer shook her head violently.  "No no no no no no no NO!!!  He
wouldn't!!!"

        "...well, he did."

        The Writer gurgled eloquently and fell over again, this time on her
back.

        Karen sighed, walked back over to the terminal, and pushed Send.  She
wasn't altogether sure what was happening at the Cafe, but it
certainly couldn't be worse than what was happening here.




_*_


        The Manager shook his/her head and deleted the message.  She/he cast
a furtive glance at the three plaques on the wall -- Falstaff's was
still blank.  Tapestry's remained, but the image now wore a blissful,
glassy-eyed expression that can only be achieved by the heavily
sedated.  No help there.  The Scribe's was intact as yet, but judging
from the way characters and Writers were being knocked off it was
difficult to say how long.

        The Manager grimaced and opened a bottle of Tequila.  It lasted
approximatly 1.03 seconds.




---------------------------


Author's Credits:  Karen, Shrive, Verney and myself belong to me.
Mostly.

Kielle and Falstaff belong to themselves, although Kielle created the
concept of SC and the Manager and 'Staff did the thing about the
plaques.

The comment about Apocalypse was mainly due to Abyss's "Help!  I'm
being help prisioner..."  thread a while back.  I know this was short,
but it was the best I can do with NO time at the moment.  (I *do* have
to do all the listed assignments.  That much, at least, was true.)
However, I should be around again once I pick up my slack in a week or
so, so be patient, please.  ;) And yes, I *do* act like that
sometimes...



@@@


A Cold Dash Of (Sub)Reality, Part 8

Part Eight:  "You Call THAT A Knife?  Now THIS Is A Knife..."

By Haesslich (haesslich@hotmail.com)



Disclaimer:  Any of the trademarks found within are property of their
owners, and are used without permission, and without the purpose of
making money (fanfics are free, after all).  Please.  Do not sue.  =)


Note:  This story does nothing to really advance the plot, being a
filler issue.)  Thoughts are represented with brackets like this < >,
and if you're easily offended by harsh language (harder than say,
'heck', then you have been warned.


Warning:  No animals were harmed in the making of this story, although
a gerbil caught a cold during the writing of the opening scene.


<"Enough with the notes, already!  Get on with the story!">



        Thick fog closed around the building that housed the Subreality Cafe,
as impenetrable as a convoluted storyline.  The light from the sign
carried no further than a few meters, sinking into the murky soup of
the mist and making visibility a matter of looking for the darkest
shadows and avoiding them.  Upon the wind could be heard soft cursing,
along with the sounds of hard-soled shoes falling upon hard concrete.

        Agent E took another peek through the fog, shivering with the chill
as he wound his way towards the Cafe.  The sound of an opening door
drifted through the fog, and a beam of light cut through the dimness.
He eyed himself critically, tugging his suit jacket down before
adjusting his tie.  One glance was enough to notice that his shoes
were polished to a shine, and a finger rubbed at the collar of his
shirt; it appeared to be sufficiently well starched to face the next
encounter.  He gave the final piece of his outfit a grimace and
shrugged to himself as he walked to the entrance.

        The Bouncer opened the door, scanning the figure standing in the fog.
"Who're you?"  came the gruff voice.  The man gave the black-suited
figure a long look-over, examining the man as if measuring him for a
coffin.  Black hair, almond-shaped brown eyes, yellow skin...probably
Chinese ancestry.  Outfit:  black on black, white dress shirt, tie,
dark sunglasses, and a large silver three-barreled shotgun.  Scent of
'Old Spice' aftershave--

        Wait.  Back up.  Three-barreled shotgun?

        Upon closer inspection the firearm was about four and a half feet in
length, and along the bottom was an open clip of shells that were each
the size of a child's fist.  The Bouncer's eyes narrowed as he looked
back up at the man in black.  "I'm sorry, you'll have to leave," the
Bouncer continued, rising to his full height.

        "I'm afraid you don't understand.  I -really- need to get in,"
replied Agent E, his expression curdling.  "It's rather important."
The man in black shifted from foot to foot, rather nervously.  He
seemed uncomfortable, head turning to check over his shoulder out of
reflex as he dropped completely out of 'character.'  The Bouncer
replied by starting to step forward, hands coming up to grab the man's
lapels.

        Agent E sighed.  "Look," he began.  "Right now I'm stuck with this
Arquillan Arm Cannon from Men In Black because my writer's a crazy and
incoherent dragon that wanted to put in the obligatory MiB ripoff into
my next story when he dropped me to read MST3K:  Jammers, MST3K:
2000-X, and X-MST3K!  AGAIN!  And he's actually reading the original
text!"

        The Bouncer stopped in his tracks.  "Reading THOSE?"

        "All at one sitting!  For the tenth time!"  Agent E wailed, waving
the arm cannon around.  "Now you see why I'm here?  At this rate I'm
afraid I'll end up with a Marvel Redhead (tm) partner or..."  Agent E
took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.  "Or worse.  I'll end up a
Summers.  First he gives me this Cable gun.  Next thing you know, I'll
be a cyborg with bad hair, a glowing eye, and a body that makes the
Hulk look like a 90-pound weakling.  Then I get thrown back into the
future, to be my own great-grandson's father..."  he finished,
shoulders sagging at the prospect.

        "Even Mike and the Bots, Tom Servo and Crow, only have to go through
that garbage once...and the Writers a few times.  But ten?"  The
Bouncer gave the Agent a skeptical expression with just a bit of pity.

        "Ten times this week so far!  And it's only Monday!"

        The Bouncer stepped back quickly, as the gun-wielding hand waved the
huge cannon in his general direction.  "Go in," was the gruff reply.
"Just leave the gun at the door."

        Agent E rushed through the doorway, nearly trampling the Bouncer
while shoving the portable artillery piece into the Bouncer's hands.
"Thanks.  Keep it."

        The Bouncer shook his head and muttered under his breath, examining
the deadly lines of the weapon.  He adjusted his grip, and started to
close the door when another shout came from the foggy streets.  <What
now?> the Bouncer thought to himself, peering out into the streets.
The Arquillan Arm Cannon rose up by itself, the self-actuated motion
unnoticed by the Bouncer.

        Out of the mist stepped out a small ragged band of fictives.  In the
lead position (of course), was a young man with pink armor.  Behind
him were arrayed several other young men and a few women, all looking
to be in their teens.  The undescribed boy in the front of the group
stepped forward, flanked by another teenaged boy of nondescript
appearance.  All of them were vague and hard to see, with the
featureless forms of undecorated mannequins.

        "Hi, I'm Shadow and this is Discharge.  Behind us is Flair and the
rest of my team.  You remember Discharge, right?  He blasted you
unconscious a few months ago.  Seeing now that we've all gotten into
the 'three-story' club, we're allowed in and YOU can't do a thing to
stop us because we're certified.  Now ya mind if ya get lost so we
ca--"

        The stillness was shattered by an explosion as the Arquillan Arm
Cannon fired itself, shredding the fog with a bright blast and
thunderclap.  When the last wisps of the foggy haze cleared, the
Bouncer could see no signs of life left in the area.  Only a pair of
smoking boots marked where Andrew Vincent had been standing a moment
ago.  There was even less of the one introduced as Discharge.  Of the
rest of Shadow's team, nothing was left to mark (or mourn) their
passing.  With a self-satisfied beep the gun shut itself off, purring
like a kitten as it seemed to snuggle down into the Bouncer's hands.
The Bouncer gawked at it in surprise.




        Silence reigned in the Cafe, the main room conspicuously empty save
for a few patrons hidden in dark corners.  Smelling of cigarette smoke
and the contents of the bottles behind the bar, it was a warm and
comfortable atmosphere.  Agent E took a long look around, then
meandered towards one of the darkened tables.  He chuckled softly,
remembering the look on the Bouncer's face as he 'fell apart.'
Several long strides brought him to the bar to get a bottle of vodka
with a glass, and several more took him to an empty table.  Sitting in
the far corner, the sturdy wooden table had two chairs opposite one
another and offered an unobstructed view.  Agent E folded his body
into one of the seats, pouring a generous splash of the libation into
his glass.  His sharp brown eyes darted around the room as he checked
out the other patrons present during this rather tense time.

        At one table the Manager sat, his/her hand on another bottle of
tequila.  By a table at the door hung a cloud of smoke, the trademark
of the Carcinogen Twins, Pete and Remy.  The dark haired sleuths sat
brooding over their beer, with an emptied mug serving as an ashtray.
Already it was half full of the remains of Marlboro and Silk Cut
cigarettes.  At the bar counter sat a few Summers, doing the usual
angst.  One or two Scotts were on the verge of passing out, and one
Alex sprawled unconscious in a rapidly spreading puddle of Zima.  A
few tables down, Agent E spotted another pair in trenchcoats.  The
male half of the duo was dark haired with vaguely handsome features
while his redheaded partner was easily a head shorter than her
partner's six-foot plus height.

        The pair walked into the cloud of smoke that hovered over a table and
stopped in front of the two smokers.  As LeBeau and Wisdom lifted
their heads up from the table, the dark haired man stepped forward and
showed off the ID badge attached to his coat.  "Hello, I'm Agent Fox
Mulder and this is Agent Dana Scully, FBI.  We're investigating the
suspicious disappearances of several characters..."  Scully stood
nearby, studying the Twins impassively.

        Remy gave a sidelong glance to Pete, then as one they both pushed
their chairs back to stand.  LeBeau flashed his brightest smile at
Scully, bowing a bit.

        "De two of us, we don't know nothing petite.  But Remy..."  LeBeau
began, before being elbowed to a halt by Wisdom.

        "Actually, if you blokes could come this way, I'm sure that we could
get somethin' productive done, eh?  Get over here, LeBeau."  Wisdom
grabbed LeBeau's arm and started dragging him towards the door.  Remy
shrugged and followed Wisdom, trailed closely by the two FBI agents.
As they vanished into the corridor, the sounds of a fight broke out.

        Agent E grinned and started to take another sip when a shadow fell
across his table.  An annoyed look up found a VERY feminine figure in
dark black jeans and a white t-shirt blocking the light.  Possessed of
a shock of shoulder length green hair, she glared down at the agent
with cold cobalt-blue eyes.  She crossed a pair of tightly muscled
arms across her chest as she leaned down to mutter to the agent.  Upon
closer inspection, he noted the hacked-off appearance of the haircut
along with the fact that she had the hardness of a jungle cat.  She
wore a brown leather bomber jacket resting on hunched shoulders, and
two holsters were visible on her belt along with one other inside the
concealment that the jacket afforded.

        Misfire leaned down to growl at the man sitting in her seat.  "This
is -my- table, so -you- get out and get lost, or else," she hissed in
a low and menacing tone.  "If you knew who I was..."

        The man raised a hand to stop the tirade.  "I know who you are,
Misfire.  You're a Vertigo clone and worked for a group in the US
Government known only as 'the Project.'  Helped bring Sinister to
justice in the story 'No Way Up' by the Scribe.  Got done in by the
younger version of you known as 'Maelstrom' whom you recruited.  Been
here ever since."  He recited the facts almost by rote, his expression
cool and collected in contrast to Misfire's own dangerous mien.  "You
are very unhappy with your Writer over that, and you ended up being
set up with a Fox Mulder crossover in one story, correct?  Oh, and I'm
Agent E. New kid in town."  he finished smoothly, taking the chance to
introduce himself.

        Agent E had the momentary satisfaction of watching Misfire's mouth
fall open for one stunned second as her life history was summarized
succinctly by a complete stranger.  Then her training reasserted
itself, causing her jaw to set as he pulled a pistol out and aimed it
between his eyes.  "Me and my Colt .45 say you're leaving."

        Nonplused, the agent reached into his coat and drew a shiny silver
gun out with a cone-shaped tip.  "My standard issue and very deadly J2
automatic blaster says I don't."

        Misfire put down her pistol and drew another, more menacing gun.
"This Desert Eagle .50 caliber says you get the hell out of my chair,
you MiB knockoff."  Her lips flattened into a thin line as she watched
him for an intimidated response and found none.  An angry red flush
started to burn at her ears as she kept staring down this apparently
stupid man.  He simply reached into his jacket again to pull out a
sleeker and deadlier looking pistol.  It was half again as long as the
J2 and was very ergonomic in its shape and appearance, from black
plastic grip to the long sloped muzzle.

        "Series 4 Deatomizer.  Can fry a target at 450 meters if you're a
good shot."  Agent E brought his face within mere inches of Misfire's,
baring his teeth in a challenging snarl.  "And that's not even at full
power."

        With one swift motion Misfire slapped her Desert Eagle down on the
tabletop, then moved her hand to her shoulder holster and thrust a
squarish weapon under the black suited man's chin.  Dully gleaming in
the dimmed lights of the Cafe, the end of it glowed with a hellish
yellow light.  Misfire smiled coldly, a minuscule upwards curling of
her lips.  There was the hint of amusement and a dark pleasure as she
shoved the man's head up uncomfortably.  "Plasma pistol.  Can put you
in a world of hurt, and drill a hole in a Sentinel at maximum range,"
she whispered in a mockingly light tone, pressing the pistol up
tighter to his head.

        The room became very silent, as the attention of the few patrons
present turned to face the contest in the corner.  Several bets passed
hands, wagering on how long the newcomer would remain.  The odds were
very high against his being present for much longer.  From outside
came a few snatches of conversation, as the Bouncer was talking to
someone.  "Hi...Shadow and...Discharge..."

        Agent E grunted as he continued to return the green-haired woman's
chilling look with one of his own.  He could feel the pistol digging
into the tender flesh of his throat, making breathing harder.  One
hand dived into his pocket, and came up with a very small grip and
trigger attachment that he poked into the woman's hard stomach.
"Noisy Cricket," he breathed, forcing his head back down onto
Misfire's gun and closing the distance.  A low growl rumbled from deep
in his throat as he faced off with Misfire.  Their faces were close
enough together to literally breathe down one another's necks.  "This
little baby can blow the top half of a Sentinel off if you shoot it in
the chest.  At point blank, you'll cease to exist."

        Her eyes darkened with anger to a sky blue, Misfire regarded the
stubby little thing jabbing into her stomach.  She looked back up to
see Agent E's smirk, and realized with a flash of annoyance that the
jerk was actually -enjoying- this.  Her fingers clenched on the plasma
pistol's grip, her voice very soft as she murmured to the Agent.
"Show me a bigger gun or get out of my seat."  She smiled a bit more,
but her expression remained as cool as ice.

        "I left my big gun with the Bouncer," E whispered back, holding his
smirk.  It's an Arquillan Arm Cannon--"

        At that moment the Cafe rocked with the force of a large explosion
from just outside.  Bottles rattled in their racks as everyone grabbed
at the nearest support to remain seated.  The people standing ended up
falling to the ground or stumbling towards one wall like the bridge
crew in a Star Trek episode.  One or two glasses shattered upon
hitting the floor, and even Misfire and E lost their guns in the
shaking.  From a very great distance, a soft wailing could just barely
be heard.  "They killed Kenny!  YOU BASTARDS!!!!"

        When the last of the shaking had passed, the patrons picked
themselves up off the floor and looked towards the doorway to see what
the commotion was.  The Bouncer strolled in a minute later, whistling
happily as he dropped himself into a seat.  The Manager looked at the
Bouncer, having kept his/her balance during the scene as well as
keeping his/her drink from spilling.  "What the hell was that?"

        The Bouncer simply gave the Manager an angelic smile, a blissful
expression crossing his broad features.  "Oh...just Andrew Vincent and
his team meeting up with a twisted Writer's revenge."  He peered
around the room to find the Agent who had given him the gun, and soon
other eyes joined his to stare curiously at the shadowy corner table.
The bottle of vodka stood alone on the tabletop, with neither
combatants or shotglass in sight.  Standing up, the Bouncer's eyes
moved down the table to the floor seeking Agent E...and he froze in
place as his search came to a sudden stop.

        Misfire and Agent E were entangled with one another on the floor, the
chair having tipped over during the first rumblings of the explosion.
Their pistols were scattered all around them, and the pair were
clutching one another tightly as they lay there looking stunned.

        "And -THAT-, Misfire, is an Arquillan Arm Cannon," E gasped, his
fingers clenched on her arm.  "Some idiot accidentally fired one of
those and shot down a Russian space station when we first got 'em."

        Misfire shook her head, trying to clear the shocked stupor and regain
her senses.  "I...I see," she whispered back, a bit less aggressive
for the time being.  "Mind if I join you then...?  You can keep the
chair."

        Agent E nodded to Misfire, and both looked up into the stares of
everyone in the Cafe before realizing their compromising position.
Misfire leaped away from E as if she'd been scalded, hastily pulling
up a chair and sitting down in order to avoid further scrutiny.  E was
only a bit slower in following, picking up the guns on the floor until
none remained for idle hands to use.  He dropped the gathered pile of
firearms on the table and sat down in the opposite seat.  They turned
away from one another to make it clear that there was nothing to see.
The low hubbub of conversation resumed, and the patrons turned back to
their drinks.

        The bottle of vodka was soon appropriated by Misfire as she knocked
back a slug.  Noticing E's inquisitive look at the bottle, she gave
the man a menacing yet almost amused baring of teeth.  "You stole my
chair, I got your bottle.  All's fair in love and war," she responded
sweetly, giving Agent E an insincere smile of apology.  "Now who the
hell are you really, and what outfit do you work for?"

        E shrugged and leaned over to snatch the vodka away from Misfire's
hand, tilting up the bottom to take a swallow.  "I already gave you my
name.  My job?  To keep track of alien and mutant activity on Earth.
The outfit?  Top secret.  Even the US Government no longer knows we
exist.  Hell, my Writer stole this idea from the movie and comic book
series anyhow..."  Agent E sighed heavily.  "Next thing you know he's
done an unholy crossover between the two, creates me, goes and has a
talk with the bosses upstairs.  Several retcons and finished side
plots later, it's like we've always been a part of the Marvel
universe."  He handed the bottle back to a disgusted-looking Misfire,
who took it without comment.  "Legally I never existed, and my boss
just sent me out on my first story sometime last week to some
conference on genetics.  Saw -your- ex-boss there...real bastard,
ain't he?"

        A hand whipped out, seizing Agent E by the throat and dragging him
over the table into Misfire's face.  She started to throttle him,
growling.  "Don't you ever mention my past again.  It's over with.
Fini.  Understand?"

        "Ggggggack....urrrgle.."

        "Good."  Misfire shoved E back into his seat and released him,
picking up the bottle for a healthy swig.  E rubbed at his throat
gingerly, trying not to wince as his fingers encountered bruised
flesh.  Already there was a dark purplish-red handprint on Agent E's
throat, promising to become an evil-looking bruise.

        From the hallway came a surprised yell, and the Bouncer walked into
it quickly to find the problem.  He returned a few seconds later, his
features paler.  "We just lost another one."

        "So," E rasped roughly, wheezing slightly in the effort of drawing
breath back into his lungs.  Agent E cocked an ear at the news,
apparently only half-interested in the vanishing as he concentrated
mostly on the current conversation.  "You got killed off by your
Writer for wanting freedom, huh?  Bummer.  I remember reading about
it...real 'knife in the back' ending.  Never saw it coming.
Should've, but..."  He shook his head, commiserating.  "I thought us
first-timers were supposed to get a break unless you were an extra or
something."

        Misfire was unable to keep her bitterness from expressing itself in a
hard frown, her lips flattening into a thin line.  "Yeah."  she
muttered.  "Most do."

        Agent E leaned forward over the table, giving the woman his most
dazzling smile.  Unfortunately for him, the smile was about as
convincing as a blissfully happy expression on a Summers.  "So do you
want freedom, kid?  Maybe a new story?  You know how free Marvel is
with their resurrections and all..."

        Vodka spilled onto the table as Misfire dropped the bottle she held,
her eyes narrowing again at Agent E. "Don't toy with me."

        "No jokes, ma'am."  E retorted, spreading his hands with palms up.
"My Writer's been reading No Way Up and asking the Scribe about you."
He glanced quickly at the portrait of the Scribe and averted his eyes
reverently, almost as soon as he looked upon it.  He dropped his voice
till it was barely audible, making it clear that the message was meant
for Misfire's ears only.  "I hear that he even got the Scribe herself
to whip up a writer's guide for you."

        Misfire practically flew over the table and caught E's shoulders
again, shoving her face into his.  "You're serious?  'Cause you'd
BETTER be serious, else I'm breaking your little neck right here.  I
ain't got time for jokes, E."

        E noted to himself the intensity of Misfire's manner as the
possibility of freedom was offered, and the way she pounced upon the
idea like a starving woman presented with a lavish banquet.  He just
beamed.  "As serious as a Summers angsts.  Maybe you could try working
on him with the pain-inducing power of yours..."

        "So...why are you talking me about this?  I don't think it's because
of purely altruistic reasons..."

        "Well," E said, "It's simple.  My editors wanted me to get a partner,
to fit the franchise they stole better.  Besides that..."  E shrugged
his shoulders again.

        Misfire blinked, catching her breath.  "I'm going to get killed
again, aren't I?"  she whispered fiercely, her expression fading from
surprise to suspicion.

        "I hope not.  I've not even gotten into my second story yet...why
anyone would get killed, I have no idea.  I mean, it's just
humour...unless he's teaming up with the dreaded BOB..."  Agent E
shuddered, and crossed himself hastily.

        The other woman nodded to that, straightening the bottle and turning
away to stand.  "Well, I'll consider it," Misfire murmured, beginning
to smile genuinely for the first time during the whole night.
"Freedom...free-dom."  Rolling the word around in her mouth, she
carefully probed at the idea from every angle while her feet carried
her to the Bartender.  She ordered two shots of Jack Daniels, grinning
with satisfaction as she strode back to her table.  "Let's drink to
th--"

        Glass shattered and whiskey splashed onto the floor as the two
tumblers slipped out of Misfire's fingers.  The table where Agent E
had been a moment ago was now empty, his chair resting on its side.
Approaching the table with a careful tread, she walked over to see if
she could spot anything to prove that E had ever been there.  The Cafe
had once more become quiet, with this second disappearance happening
minutes after the first.  Her hands curled up at her sides as
Misfire's temper built.  With a loud bellow of rage, she slammed one
clenched fist into the tabletop with a resounding thud that shook the
table on its legs.  "DAMN YOU, KIELLE!"

        

----


<Psst!  Roll the credits!>

<Where's that button...  ah...here we are...long today, aren't they?>

<Shut up E, before I shoot you where it don't grow back.>

<...>


-The Credits (aka Whose Stories and Ideas were Hijacked)


Patrick Sahlstrom (Pete and Remy, aka the Carcinogen Twins)

Falstaff (for the Bouncer, the Manager, the Bartender)

'X-MST3K' is Kielle's (original text Andrew Vincent's), 'MST3K:
2000-X' by the Starbase Omega Crew (original text by Adam McPartlin),
'MST3K:  Jammers' by John Seavey, (original text by Prelate-Syphon).

Tapestry for her last chapter in 'SC:  A Cold Dash of (Sub)reality'
and the Cafe itself.

Kielle (again), Goddess of Fanfic and owner of the Subreality Cafe
concept.  (Am I kissing up?  Yes.  =)

Fox Mulder and Dana Scully cheerfully ripped off from the X-Files and
Chris Carter

Tom Servo, Crow, and Mike and MST3K are all copyrights of their owner,
Best Brains (all hail!)

Men in Black references taken from the movie, copyrights for the
description of the guns and everything else belong to Columbia
Pictures.

Shadow and his team belong to Andrew Vincent and the Unspeakable One,
and all belong in R'yleh.  That's a personal opinion, so don't blast
me THAT much.  =)

The reference to Discharge and the Bouncer comes from 'SC:  Monday
Night, June 16th' by FancyCatz, where Discharge blasted the Bouncer
unconscious and got in on a 'three-story' technicality.  Sorry
FancyCatz, but after rereading X-MST3K about...oh...thirty times in
two weeks, I -really- wanted to let the Bouncer have a rematch with
Discharge.  It can be found at Image's site:

http://members.aol.com/Image89302/cafe.html

Oh, and the South Park reference belongs to their owners, Comedy
Central.  Especially Kenny.  =)

BOB also belongs to himself.  This is a fanfic/humourous look at the
Marvel Universe in its own way, so please...don't sue.  =)




@@@


A Cold Dash Of (Sub)Reality

Part Nine:  The Last Straw

By Geoff Jones (pjames@learn.senecac.on.ca)




        The Bouncer sat at the bar in the now deserted Subreality Cafe.  He
reached for his shot glass and drained back another drink.  He didn't
drink, he worked here, had to stay sober.  He indicated at his empty
and, in a loud voice said, "Esh un 'ore fer sure road."

        The Bartender looked dubiously at the Bouncer.  He/she had never seen
him so depressed, not even when Willey managed to briefly take
complete control of the Subreality Cafe.  He/she looked around the
deserted building and sighed.  Grabbing the glass, he/she filled it
again.  "Just one more, then I'm going to have to cut you off."

        The Bouncer glared.

        "It's for your own good and you know it.  If It comes to get you,
what ever the heck It is, you need to be in top form.  One more."

        "Aw bosh, i'got cook, ya know.  Cookie wash alone.  I'kin get
hen-hen-henyone."  The Bouncer choked, got up and quickly stumbled
into the mens' bathroom.

        The Bartender shook his/her head.  This was really bad.  The list of
known missing characters was growing.  It had started with Celande,
Delphi and Jim the Goth, quickly followed by Renee and Cody.  The
largest shock had occurred when Dawn, an established character, dearly
loved, had disappeared.

        After that no one was sacred.  Siku, Hotshot, Image, Angel "Don't
call me Angel" Fletcher and Sabine Roberts, gone.  Then the
unthinkable had happened:  a Writer had disappeared.  Not just any
Writer, but Falstaff.

        Glancing over at where Falstaff's portrait had once hung, the
Bartender saw that it was still missing, the canvas stark white.
Tapestry seemed to be affected as well, her image glassy and
unfocused.

        ~Of course that could just be because of the chocolate,~ the
Bartender though on relection.  ~It's funny, too; even those Writers
who have been affected still seem to hold some sway.  I'm sure I felt
Falstaff and Tapestry's hand manipulating my actions ear...~

        (His train of thought trailed off as the Writer realized that the
characters were getting far too aware of what was happening in the
real world.  Long hours at a computer terminal drinking far too much
coffee had the potential of creating such effects.)

        The Bouncer walked back out of the mens' washroom as the Bartender
was cleaning the bar.  Looking at the clock at the back of the cafe,
the Bartender grunted.  "Closing time -- let's go to bed.  If It's
going to get us, It'll have to do it in our sleep."

        As they walked out the back door the Bouncer turned back to look at
the cafe.  "Youse all play nish," he slurred to the furniture.  "No
broken legs dish time."




************


        The next day the Bartender walked silently down the stairs, followed
by a scowling Bouncer.  "Would you mind not making all that noise?"
the Bouncer asked in a painful whisper.  The Bartender shook his/her
head and held up a single four-dimensional key.  Placing it into the
lock on the cafe's back door, he/she silently prayed that he/she would
have some peace before another Writer got their hands on the place.
~Please let everything be normal,~ he/she though as he/she opened the
door.

        The cafe was empty.

        Not completely odd considering that it was early and none of the
fictives usually arrived until later on.  This time, however, not only
the people were missing but all the tables, lights, chairs, heck even
the piano was gone.  The Bartender swallowed, blinked twice, turned
around and looked again.

        The cafe was empty.  Highly polished, fine wood walls was all that
was left.

        "Mon dieu," he/she said as the exhausted Writer made a small cultural
leap for the sake of effect.  "It's gone, all gone but how?  Who would
rob the Subreality Cafe of its furniture?  It's immoral,
impossible...it doesn't make any sense."

        "What was that, boss?"  the Bouncer said behind the Bartender.  He
strained his neck, trying to look past him in the doorway.  "What's
going on?"

        The Bartender stepped out of the doorway, and let the Bouncer through
the door.  As he stepped into the cafe and surveyed the lack of decor,
his mouth began to move up and down rapidly, kind of like a fish.
Small strangled noises came from his throat before he turned and
rushed to the stock room, throwing open the door.  A quick,
Homer-esque scream came from him and he turned around.

        "NOOOOOOO..."  He fell to his knees.  "They're gone, they're all
gone!"

        The Bartender sighed.  "Yes, we've been robbed," he/she stated
simply.  "And it doesn't make any sense."

        The Bouncer looked up.  "Yes it does, don't you remember?  Willey
wrote a story about them -- he named them...he made them fictives.
Now Mort and Dirk and all their friends are gone.  No more Salt 'n'
Peppa..."

        "I though they were Salt and Pepper," the Bartender interjected.

        "Not the shakers, the group.  I had all their albums on the
jukeboxes, even if no one else listened to them, and now they're
gone."  The Bouncer looked around again, then noticed that the picture
frames of the various Writers were still on the walls.  Getting up, he
quickly walked over to the one with Kielle's face in the frame.  "Why
didn't you stop it?  Why didn't all of you stop it?  You were here all
the time."

        Kielle looked slightly embarrased.  "Well, you see the truth is, I do
have a life besides writing and I'm not always here...hey, I created
you guys, why do you always blame me?"

        The Bartender walked around the bar, stopping in the middle of the
cafe.  "Because you were the one who started this, and now it's your
turn to stop it.  I didn't mind the fact that some characters had
disappeared; some of them are more trouble to me then they were worth.
Sure, I was a little concerned, but nothing above that."

        The Bouncer piped up, "Yeah, and when the Writers started getting
affected as well, we were saying all the power to It.  Have you seen
what they've put us through?"

        "But, to ruin the cafe, make everyone desert it in fear, and then
allow our furniture to be taken?  That...that is just the last straw.
And look at what It did to the floor," the Bartender said, pointing
down.  In the fine wood finish, in large letters was engraved TIC.

        "tock"

        "Huh?"  The Bouncer rushed over to the door, opening it up.  Outside
a young man dressing in a casual-preppy style struggled with a small
gold watch at the end of a chain.  "Who are you?"

        "Huh?"  The young man looked up at the Bouncer, squinting behind
glasses.  "Oh, I'm sorry, it's just this damn watch tells me I'm out
of time, and then it does it lets off a rather loud tock."





*************


What will happen next?  Will more people disappear, or will someone
come up with an ending?



Credits:

Celende belongs to Ms.  Marvel

Delphi was Perri Smith's creation

Jim the Goth is the responsibility of Aoife & Arachnid

Renee & Cody belong to Valerie Jones

Dawn was created by Tapestry

Siku was created by Darqstar

Hotshot is Ben Church's problem

Image is by David J. Warner

Angel Fletcher belongs to Nimue Morin

Sabine Roberts to Alexandra Nigro

Mort, Dirk, Salt and Pepper belong to Jesse N. Willey

Rumor has it that the Bouncer and Cook were created by Falstaff but
the jury's still out on that.  Me thinks the Bartender was created by
Kielle and I'm innocent till proven guilty!

The young man at the end is myself, Geoff Jones, of whom I am at least
part owner.

Kielle, Jesse N Willey, Tapestry, Phil Foster and Falstaff are all
Writers and have convinced themselves that they are self owned.  We'll
have to see.

Salt 'n' Peppa are a singing group and belong to their manager and
fans, of which I am neither.

Homer is the property of FOX Entertainment and that Matt guy.




@@@


A Cold Dash Of (Sub)Reality

Part Ten Et Finale:  The Center Holds

By Kelly "Kielle" Newcomb (kielle@aol.com)

with assistance from Tapestry (malfam@inlink.com)




        All in all, Ash had to admit, he'd had a pretty darn good week.

        It hadn't been easy to get into the Mainstream place up the "road"
from the Cafe, but enough soulful moping in the direction of a certain
weather goddess had finally done the trick -- he had the pitiful
appeal of a half-starved alley-cat, and he knew it.  "One drink,"
she'd cautioned him, "one single drink, and then straight back to
where you belong."

        That, of course, was before he'd managed to "accidentally" run into
the "real" Remy LeBeau.  Despite Storm's increasingly feeble protests
and cautions, one drink had turned into several drinks, then several
cigarettes, then several hands of poker, then a promise to smuggle Ash
in through the back door the next night.  And the next.  And the next.

        Hands thrust deep into pockets, Ash now sauntered in the direction of
his usual haunt, the Subreality Cafe, the interdimensional watering
hole for fanfic characters such as himself.  He almost caught himself
whistling, and instead broke into a wide grin which would have shocked
the boots off of anyone who knew him from his own series.  In that, he
was a timid, frightened, tortured soul, a mere shell of the man who
was better known as the debonair Gambit in kinder realities.  However,
he'd been learning to loosen up when he was "off duty."  And the icing
on the cake was the newly-discovered fact that the real Gambit was
currently having a MUCH worse time of it than his fanfic
counterpart...

        As the Cafe loomed out of the mists ahead, Ash chuckled to himself at
the thought.  "I might have it rough, oui, but at least MY Rogue would
never leave me out in de snow wit'out a shirt on...d'accord, dere was
dat one time, but Muir Island ain't exactly the Antarctic..."

        He stopped dead and stared up at the Cafe as something very important
finally registered on his wandering brain.  At this time of the
evening the place should have been rocking, ablaze with lights and
laughter and the occasional crash of breaking glass.  Instead, only
the faintest glow illuminated a window or two from within.  The neon
signs were dark.  And the Bouncer's nook was empty.

        Only then did Ash remember the rumors which had only just begun
filtering around the fictive community on the night he'd accepted a
double-dare from Target Dexterity and set out for the Mainstream
place.  Rumors of characters gone missing, Writers wandering astray...

        <Non, that can't be...  Perhaps someone is playing a joke -- a
surprise party, peut-etre?  Oui, dat has to be it; it IS almost my
birthday.  Tres amusant, mes amis.  But y'can't fool me!> With a smile
slowly spreading over his rangy features, he strained his ears and his
spatial sense for movement.

        He found nothing.  His grin froze and then collapsed.

        "Mon dieu," he whispered, shivering as a random breeze whirled the
clammy mists through his hair and around his tense body.

        He might have said more, perhaps entered the Cafe seeking answers.
As it turned out, he had a lot more to worry about.  A moment before
there had been nothing behind him.  Suddenly Something WAS there -- he
could feel it like a cold wind at his back, a black shadow hanging
over his mutant senses.  He didn't need to look to know that it was
something very, very bad.  Moving on pure instinct, he started to
whirl, dropping low, ready for anything--

        Whatever it was, it gestured at Ash with a rough graceless tearing
motion.  Without a sound, without pain, the shocked fictive
simply...unravelled.

        As what was left of the fragment of imagination known as Remy "Ash"
LeBeau dispersed into the mists in a crystalline spray, his last
thoughts were for his Writer.  This shouldn't have happened!  Had she
forsaken him?  Why...?




* * *


        It was almost finished.

        It had been hard work, admittedly, but it was worth the trouble.  The
long years of fuming impotently at the sidelines were almost over.  At
last, it would have control.

        The Mainstream universe was like a river rushing through a great
glass pipe, visible to all but only dancing to the whims of those
strange murky minds who moved within its depths.  Minds who sometimes
failed in their task.  Weak minds who twisted and distorted the
substance of the river of thought as they took from it, unable to
comprehend the true potential of what they had always taken for
granted.        It knew it could do better.     It had beaten jealously
against the glass for far too long...clawing at the impenetrable
barrier, longing to join in, but to no avail.  The barrier had been
too strong, the crystalline filaments that were the pipe too tightly
woven to penetrate.  There was no room for loopholes.

        Then one day it had looked closer and found a tiny tributary
springing from the closed system, hardly more than a glittering leak.
The tiny trickle looped through the mind of a human being and then
flowed away into the mists, its path arrow-straight, as if it knew
exactly where it was going.  Curious, the watcher tore itself away
from its fixation with the main source long enough to follow the tiny
rivulet, which was joined by other threads of focused imagination
until they melded into a rushing stream.

        A stream which it could touch, unlike the forbidden "river."

        For a long time it crouched there, blank with astonishment, running
its fingers almost obsessively through the merry little rush of ideas.
Then it straightened up and found itself gazing through a firelit pane
of glass...directly into the cheerful cacophony of what it would later
come to know as the Subreality Cafe.

        It had blinked with amazement, frozen unnoticed at the window.  The
ambiguous little tavern was practically humming with the creativity
and wonder which it had sometimes glimpsed within the great river --
sometimes good, sometimes bad, but all of it untamed and running free
through this plane between realities.

        At that moment it knew:

        It would HAVE this place.




        The characters had been easy to divert, though it had to start small
with characters who were no longer being used anyhow.  As it became
more adept, it began to quench the very muses themselves, shy nebulous
creatures who tended the individual trickles of impulsive thought
which fed the rogue "stream" of creativity.  In many cases it was
childishly simple -- disrupted sleep, dreams dispelled with a wave of
the hand, a subtle but increasing pressure applied to personal lives
and office environments.  Exhausted, stressed-out Writers had no time
to pin down their ideas in prose.  Without ideas, the muses became
weak, easy to capture and lock away.  In fact, it had developed quite
a collection of these strange, timid creatures, and found their
distress at the situation somewhat amusing to watch.

        Even more satisfying, however, was to watch their Writers.  Without
muses, the Writers set aside their projects, swearing half-heartedly
to "get back to them next month maybe."  Without new chapters to amuse
them, Readers sought out new sources of entertainment.

        Without Writers to rescue them with another chapter or the
appreciation of Readers to keep them vibrant, characters became easy
prey.  At the same time the dreams and fragments, the
characters-yet-to-be, quietly scattered back into the mists like a
handful of ashes in the wind.   The intruder had nothing against the
"fictives," actually.  It was simply that if creativity was allowed to
run loose like this a myriad of splinter universes and alternate
realities were created, none significantly more important than any
other.  At least, none to rival Mainstream.  Each character (or set of
characters, like that troublesome Neramani and his pals) were the
lynchpin which made their particular splinter reality unique.  Excise
their mutating, plot-twisting presence, and there was nothing to
differentiate that particular sub-reality.  There was no room for
redundancy -- the now lusterless subreality winked out, collapsing
back into the Mainstream.

        They all had to go.

        Because once the playing field was level, so to speak, it would ease
off on the unsuspecting Writers, allowing them to return to their
notepads and their keyboards.  It would release the muses, albeit on
very short leashes.  They would carry its ideas to their human
counterparts.  It would control the story -- for it would be ONE
majestic interwoven storyline, none of this rampant individuality,
even if the Writers knew it not.  What had been a chaotic mess would
rise as a single coherent vision, one powerful dream, one sweeping
river of continuity and cohesion to rival the original.

        Only this time, IT would be in control.

        There would be no more standing to one side as fictives and slivers
of imagination scattered around like so many mindless insects, totally
oblivious to the bigger picture.  No more gazing with soul-consuming
longing into the river it knew it could never be a part of.  There
would be a new river, and that river would belong to IT.        It liked
the thought.

        Right now, however, it stood outside the Cafe with a deep frown
furrowed into its featureless face, fists on what were ostensibly its
hips.  The lights were dark, and the signs had burned out; a pall of
dead grey hung over the formerly lively structure.  The door swung
listlessly open, creaking in a nonexistent breeze.  It had them all.
It was over.

        So why was the place still standing?




* * *



        She'd been the first, and now she was the last.  She knew it in her
bones, in the dry grey stillness which alternately yawned empty around
her or pressed in close like a dusty old quilt.

        Oddly, she wasn't frightened, or depressed.  Anxious enough to gnaw
on her nails, perhaps -- uncertain about what she was supposed to do,
definitely.  But she had faith that she'd think of something.  She
usually did.  It was her nature.

        She sat alone in the deserted Cafe, at a table framed squarely by a
slant of sunlight which streamed through a curtainless window.  Dust
motes danced in the swathe of gold, but the light itself seemed tired,
permeated with an oppressive orange taint.  The kind of light one
expects to see emanating from an ancient sun, she thought, just before
it begins to go super-nova.  There was a glass at her elbow which
contained nothing but cola-tinted water which had been ice some time
before, although she wasn't exactly sure when or where she'd gotten
it; she idly swirled a straw through it, her chin resting on her other
hand.

        Perhaps she should go out there to confront whatever it was.  She'd
been telling herself that for the past two hours.  But for some reason
her feet had refused to cooperate.  Which was strange, because she was
certainly not a coward.  Intuition, perhaps?  A hunch?

        <Of course,> she realized, sitting up straight as understanding
struck.  <It'll have to come HERE if it wants to finish the job.
Whatever "it" is, and whatever that "job" might be, it surely can't be
done until-->

        Right on cue, the front door creaked open and there IT stood.

        Even though she had never laid eyes on it before, the instant she saw
it she knew what it was...and what it wanted.

        She'd thought that she'd be frightened when she finally met it.
After all, how many nights had she and the others stayed at the Cafe
as late as possible, trying to outscare each other with the latest
chilling rumors about the disappearances?  Whatever it was, it had
taken away all of her friends -- she didn't know if they were still
out there, somewhere, alive but captive, or if had been returned to
the ethers of the minds from whence they had come.  It had practically
destroyed the Subreality Cafe and everything it stood for, blithely
dismissing the collective joy, pain, even the fictives themselves --
everything that had made subreality REAL.

        And now it was here for her...implacable, uncaring, inhuman.  She
should have been terrified.  Inexplicably, she wasn't afraid of it in
the least...

        And then she understood.

        Calmly, she straightened her silk blouse and flicked the dust off of
her jeans with a motion of exaggerated care.  Only then did she rise
to her feet to face the thing.

        With a distinctly irritated expression (which was strange, for it had
no discernable features) the stranger raised a hand and gestured at
her.  It was an odd gesture, arm moving as if to catch ahold of some
invisible substance, then pulling on it ever so casually.  Braced for
anything, anything at all, she was surprised to feel only the
slightest tug...just the slightest disruption of her sense of balance.

        It occurred to her then that perhaps there was an actual reason as to
why she was the last one left.

        Her confidence rising, she stubbornly planted her feet and glared at
the intruder.  It seemed quite taken aback at her reaction.  It tried
again -- to banish her or capture her, she wasn't sure which, but
either way she would have none of it.  She simply refused to be
affected...and it worked.  For all of her opponent's obvious effort,
absolutely nothing unpleasant happened to her.

        She almost laughed aloud at the angry confusion radiating from the
intruder.  The amusement must have shown on her face, for it snarled
soundlessly and made another, even more dramatic flourish, this time
"yanking" whatever it was it held.  She got the impression that the
"gloves" were now off, that whatever it had just done should have been
devastating...but all she felt was a slight twinge, a mere pinch.
Intuitively, she knew that the third strike had not been a direct
attack upon herself but, rather, had been a demoralizing strike at her
Writer.  It was trying to cut her off from the mind which had created
her -- it was trying to undermine her footing in "reality."

        It was failing spectacularly.

        And she understood exactly why.

        "I just figured something out," she said in an almost friendly
manner.  Her voice was very loud in the echoingly empty Cafe.  "Did
you know that we were starting to figure it out in the end -- at
least, the Writers did, once their kind started disappearing from the
Cafe too.  You were making them too busy with their 'real' lives to
protect their characters.

        "But I'm different.  You can't stop them all.  There's absolutely
nothing you can do to me."

        It snarled again.  She took one step forward.  Almost against its
will, it was forced back a step itself, even though she was still a
good ten feet away from it.

        Her, a mere unarmed girl.

        She didn't suddenly feel Immensely Powerful -- she didn't really feel
any different at all.  What WAS important was one simple fact:
everything finally made sense.  For the first time in her confusing,
topsy-turvy life, It All Made Sense.

        She smiled at the creature without malice.  "I feel sorry for you,
actually.  You must have worked really hard on whatever it is you
thought you were doing.  But you must see now that as long as I'm
here, everything you've done can be unraveled.  Because I'm the
center.  The core.  The heart.  The beginning.  I am the first, and I
will exist for as long as there are minds left to dream.  Whether you
like it or not.

        "Whether ANYONE likes it or not."





        This was not possible!

        It had tried to capture the errant wisp of imagination like it had
snared all the rest.  Twice.  The second time it had bared its claws
and struck hard enough to half-obliterate a smaller character,
attempting to unravel the physical form of this tiny slip of a girl.
It had worked many times before -- destroy the body and the energy is
returned to the stream, stored away nicely for later use.  It was all
so simple...

        Or at least it had been until now.      Irritated, it had then decided
to drive her Writer's attention away from her, to discourage his or
her ideas and thus strand this impudent little bit of nothing high and
dry without fuel for her rebellious existence.  When it had reached
out, however, the problem became apparent:  more than one mind
supplied the "spark" to this particular character.

        It was annoyed but not surprised.  When it had confronted that
dismayingly changeable McCoy girl it had taken a truly tremendous
effort to wrench her away from her network of supporting Writers and
Readers before it could strike her down.  It was troublesome, it was
hard work, but it could be done.

        Ah well -- now that the majority of its work was done, it could
certainly afford however much time and effort was needed to wear this
one down, too.  And, although it liked to think it was more civilized,
it wouldn't be completely adverse to making the perverse fictive hurt
a little for all the annoyances she was causing.        <All this trouble
simply because these silly little crumbs of thought, these wayward
delusions refuse to follow my dream of perfect Order...>

        With a long-suffering sigh, it deigned to take a close look at the
task which now lay before it.  At how many Writers it would have to
deal with before this last defiant shred of rebellion could be brought
under control...

        It looked, and the first taste of fear suddenly soured its tongue and
chilled its stomach.





        The dark stranger looked distracted, then horrified.  It hissed at
her and edged forward threateningly, its edges billowing as if caught
in a nonexistent gale.  The weakened floor creaked under its weight;
behind it, the Cafe itself wavered as if in a shimmer of heat and
began to fade away...

        She stood her ground.  Without the slightest trace of fear, she
closed her eyes and purposely dug deep into her mental "bag of tricks"
-- for the first time in her life, she strove to select her mutant
power du jour instead of passively allowing a Writer to choose it for
her.  Within a heartbeat which seemed to last an eternity, she felt a
satisfying imaginary "click" as she found what she was looking for.
There was no name for the weird new ability she'd dredged up from
within her mixed-up chromosomes, but then again she'd probably never
need to use it again anyway.

        Convenient Power Manifestation was handy that way.

        Her eyes snapped open and focused.  "Sorry about this," she told the
intruder with real regret in her voice.  And she waved her hand--




~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~. ~ . ~ . ~ .
~



        You don't know where you were, or what happened to you.  All you know
is that you are THERE again, standing at the crossroads between the
shifting planes of What Might Be and What Might Have Been, and you can
see the cheery glow of neon winking through the swirling mists.  You
don't feel the insistent tug which means the call to arms -- be it
writing a story or starring in one, it doesn't really matter.  What
DOES matter is that whatever happened to you is over, and you're
hungry and lonely and a little bit cold, and up ahead is the place
where you can solve all three problems in the best possible way.

        The Subreality Cafe is unusually quiet for this particular day of the
week.  Is it deserted?  Closed...?  No, not quite; firelight flickers
cozily through the windows, and the Bouncer is standing in his shadowy
nook to the right of the door.  Brawny arms crossed, he nods
companionably to you as you join him under the eaves.  Your fingers
trail down stained glass and varnished wood to settle on the handle of
the front door -- it's metal tonight, curved, and it turns easily.

        As you step inside, a whiff of something foul nearly makes you choke.
You flail frantically at the tainted air and the scorched scent
dissipates, giving way to the smells of greasy cooking and exotic
drinks, smoke and sawdust.

        You wipe your tearing eyes clear to find to your amazement that you
are the only person in the Cafe.  No, correction:  you are the second
person in the Cafe, for you can hear someone thumping around in one of
the back rooms.  You recognize the voice (and the string of curses) as
belonging to the Manager as something distant falls over with a tinkle
of breaking glass...

        Scratch that -- you're the THIRD person in the Cafe.  A blonde elven
girl with feline eyes, no more than sixteen years old, is sitting
alone at a table facing the front door, idly drumming her heels
against the legs of her chair.  As your gaze alights upon her, she
becomes a twenty-year-old brunette with the neatly folded pinions of a
Gargoyle, an ornate bare sword resting across her lap...then the wings
are gone and she is a simple farmgirl with a froth of red curls and a
smattering of freckles across her cute nose.  All of her
manifestations are beautiful, and all occur without her ever looking
up from the battered old copy of "Arrows Of The Queen" in which she
seems to be utterly engrossed.  The great white wolf reclining at her
feet darkens to ebony and then shivers into a flock of
brightly-colored firelizards no longer than your forearm, scraps of
jewel-bright color which chitter excitedly at each other as they take
to the air and dart away in search of a bowl of peanuts.

        In the Subreality Cafe, this is nothing unusual.

        She finally looks up from her book and spots you; she breaks into a
charming smile as her hair shifts gold and her eyes shade from emerald
to amethyst.  The sword becomes a glowing scepter, then vanishes
completely.  Hooves clatter on the wooden walkway outside as a unicorn
-- or is it Pegasus this time, or a Companion?  -- paces where there
was no such thing a moment before.

        "Oh!  There you are!"  the ever-changing girl exclaims happily.
"Come on in, come sit down.  Don't worry, everything's going to be
okay after all.  I took care of it, you know.  That's my job."

        Without being able to explain exactly why, you know that she's
telling the truth.

        And so you join Mary Sue for a drink and to wait for the others to
arrive.





..-= FINIS =-.



* * *



CREDITS

Yes, there are a few.  First of all, I want to thank everyone who
chipped in on this project:  Falstaff, Tapestry, Phil Foster,
Haesslich, and Geoff Jones for adding chapters and ideas to my vague
plotline (further chapters are still welcome, because all kinds of
cool stuff could have happened before or after this finale!); poor
confused Laersyn, who let me bounce bizarre ideas off of him until one
worked; and Susan Crites, who solidified the character of the infamous
Mary Sue and unwittingly handed me the perfect heroine for this story.
I'll bet you thought for a few moments that she was supposed to be me,
didn't you?  Gotcha!


(NOTE:  If you don't know who Mary Sue is, let's just say that she
pre-dates the Internet, tracing her roots waaaay back to the Star Trek
'zines and APAs of the seventies.  She's every fangirl character ever
created:  the brilliant beautiful ensign who gets Kirk to fall in love
with her, the half-elven warrior/cleric/ sorceress/thief who roams the
land with her trusty talking unicorn in search of adventure, the
plucky mutant teenager who captures Gambit's heart, every orphaned
barmaid who ever became a hero or a queen, a plethora of Sailor
Whatevers, and just about any female character ever to star in a
McCaffery or Lackey fanfic.  ;)


Speaking of Anne & Misty, firelizards belong to the former; "Arrows Of
The Queen" and Companions belong to the latter.  Marvel characters
(ie.  Gambit & Storm) belong to Marvel.  And the Gargoyle concept in
question is owned by Disney.  Ideas for the names for both this
chapter amd the first were pulled from William Butler Yeats' "The
Second Coming."


Remy "Ash" LeBeau belongs to Lori McDonald, who graciously gave me
permission to use the dear boy and threatened bodily harm if I didn't
give him back.  ;) Target Dexterity belongs to herself, though Martha
McMahon THINKS she owns her.  Rem'aillon "Remi" Neramani and company
belong to Valerie Jones.  "That McCoy girl" is, of course, Darqstar's
Sikudhani.  The Bouncer and the Manager are, as always, attributable
to the brilliant Falstaff.  This particular manifestation of Mary Sue
was first chronicled by Susan Crites.


On the other hand, the weird-ass villain of this piece and the
Subreality concept are both of my own creation.  No, I can't fully
explain the "bad guy" either -- it was more of a feeling or a
"concept" than an actual hard-edged character.  Sometimes things don't
make perfect sense, that's all -- even in stories.  Maybe said being
represents fandom itself.  I leave it up to your interpretation, dear
reader.


The Mainstream belongs to all of the comic-book companies we like to
write about.  No Writers, Artists, or characters were harmed in the
making of this series.  No money was made, either.  Gee, sounds like
an Andrew Dice Clay movie.  <G> Please ask before archiving, though
Image has blanket permission as usual.  Feedback is appreciated.  What
did you think of the ending twist....?


And last but not least, you belong to yourself.  Well, isn't it about
time I wrote you into one of these?  ;)


.-=K=-.

@@@

EPILOGUE

A Cold Dash Of (Sub)Reality
Coda
By Falstaff (kielle@aol.com)
with assistance from Tapestry (gratton@worldnet.att.net)

Inspired by the all the previous chapters of the round robin SC 
tale "A Cold Dash of (Sub)Reality" by
Kielle (kielle@aol.com)
Falstaff  (gratton@worldnet.att.net)
Tapestry (malfam@inlink.com)
Phil Foster (scrumpy@balfourroad.demon.co.uk)
Haesslich (haesslich@hotmail.com)
Geoff Jones (pjames@learn.senecac.on.ca)

        It was a quiet night.  Lately, that would have been cause 
for concern, but that was all over now.  Everything was back 
to business as usual.
        [And thank Claremont!] the Bouncer thought, pulling his 
broad-brimmed fedora a little lower over his eyes.  The snow 
had stopped falling  the day before, but the mists were still 
unusually thick.  [What an absolute mess that was.  But at least 
it's over now.]  He leaned back against the brick outer wall of 
the Cafe, glancing at the sturdy wristwatch on his arm.  [Too 
early to go inside.  Unless there's some sort of trouble, I'm 
going to be out here for at least another hour.]
        And even that was pushing it a little.  The patrons of the 
Subreality Cafe were so thrilled that the crisis had passed that 
they were all behaving themselves.  [Even Ison.  And Jim is 
quietly drowning himself in mead.]  He grinned darkly.  [That'll 
teach him to get into a drinking contest with Mist.  And with 
Moonstar sitting at their table, he won't start anything -- and 
she wouldn't dare.]
        But what was that?  Some type of noise, coming from the 
edge  of  the mists…if he listened hard, he could almost pick 
up sounds, something like -- *singing?*  Yes, it *was* singing; 
after a fashion.  A  theme to some old television show, 
something the Bouncer had once seen when he was sweeping 
floors at the Subreality Television Studio.   What was it called --
 'Party?'  'Fiesta?'
        The name of the show, though, became immaterial as its 
source burst from the mists.  It was a short, portly man with a 
reddish-brown beard and a battered bowler hat; he was riding 
one of the original Green Goblin's cast-iron Goblin-cycles, 
carrying an antique walking-stick, and singing off-key at the 
top of his lungs, his arms spread outward melodramatically.
        "Bum-budda-bum budda-bum budda-bum budda-ba-BA!" 
he bellowed.  "Bum-budda-bum budda-bum budda-bum -- bum 
budda-bum bum bum!"  The bowler was pushed back as he 
pulled in another lungfull of air.  "Bum-budda-bum budda-bum 
budda-bum budda-ba-BA!"
        "Stop that!" the Bouncer roared.  There was an awkward 
silence as the rotund man stood astride the floating machine.  
"Well," the Bouncer said after a few moments ticked by, "what 
is it?"
        "What is it?  What *is* it?" the newcomer exclaimed 
incredulously.  "I'm here!  I have arrived!  The cavalry hath 
reached the Alamo!"  He swept off the bowler with a flourish, 
striking a theatrical pose with the cane.  "Ladies and fictives, 
hide the valuables, lock up your daughters, and get the root 
beer out of the fridge!  Falstaff is *back!*"
        The Bouncer's left eyebrow climbed a good inch and a 
half.  "So?"
        "So?  *So?*" the Writer said, his face taking on an 
astounded expression.  "So I'm here!  I escaped from the plot 
contrivance that side-slipped me out in Chapter Five.  And now 
I'm ready to give the whatever-it-is who's been messing with 
my beloved Subreality Cafe what for!"
        Another quarter inch.  "You want a medal or something?  
It's over."
        "Over?"
        The Bouncer rolled his eyes.  "Yeah, over.  Finished, 
ended, complete.  You gonna repeat everything I say?"
        "But how can it be over?  I mean, I can't have missed it!"
        "Look," the Bouncer said, blowing air slowly between his 
teeth, "if you wanna go in, I'm not gonna stop you.  But you 
can't just hover in the doorway like this.  Matter of fact," he 
grimaced, "you can't park that thing here."
        Now it was Falstaff's turn to raise an eyebrow.  "No 
problem." He hopped down from the floating Goblin-cycle, 
landed with a bounce, and snapped his fingers.  A red-jacketed 
Subreality Valet appeared out of nowhere and maneuvered the 
vehicle into the Cafe's underground parking garage.  "The 
perks of being a Writer, big fella," Falstaff winked, as he 
brushed past the Bouncer and waddled happily into the Cafe, 
still singing merrily.  "It's a beautiful day in the 
neighborhood..."
        It was a quiet night.  Lately, that would have been cause 
for concern, but that was all over now.  Everything was back 
to business as usual.


CREDITS:
The Bouncer belongs to me.  The Subreality Valet does too, 
but I'll sell him to anyone willing to join my campaign to get 
people to STOP CALLING MY MANAGER 'THE 
BARTENDER!' <deeeeeeeeep breath> Sorry.  I'm all right 
now.  I don't know what came over me…
I belong to me, as do my hat and cane.
I've got the Goblin-cycle on loan from the estate of Norman 
(Green Goblin) Osborne, who used to belong to Marvel back 
in the Day, but now belongs to me, along with Alpha Flight, 
the Thunderbolts, and half of Damage Control.  I picked them 
up at the same bankruptcy auction where Allegra bought the 
X-Men.
Mist the Valkyrie and the variation on Danielle Moonstar are 
from "Kid Dynamo," by Connie Hirsch.
Jim the Goth was created by Aoife and Arachnid.
Chris Claremont belongs to himself.  At least, I hope so; 'cause 
if he belongs to Marvel after all these years then he's in some 
hot soup…
The Alamo belongs to the Parks Department of the State of 
Texas.
The theme of 'Bonanza' belongs to whoever owns the show; 
the idea of somebody singing it while riding in belongs to Billy 
Crystal, who wrote it into the script of "City Slickers."
'It's a Beautiful Day In the Neighborhood' belongs to Fred 
Rogers.  I don't care if it's corny, I still get a warm and fuzzy 
feeling from watching that show…
The Great Kielle and the Just As Great Tapestry created the 
Subreality Cafe.

Yours,
Falstaff
(gratton@worldnet.att.net)

BOLANDER: Y'know, you Italians are an unforgiving lot.
GEIARDELLO: Yeah, but we make great pasta.  That balances it out.
--Ned Beatty and Yaphet Kotto, "Homicide: Life on the Street"