Because I told Phil I would...
May. 13th, 2004 07:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deathpixieRemember Subreality? Phil and I were getting nostalgic last night. Well, I was defending my Current Obsession by saying how much fun it was co-writing and how much I missed that part of Subreality. So, here it is, dug out of the vaults, a little co-writing effort Phil and I started waaaay back in the Good Old Days. Nag him and he might add to it. ;)
***
Like many Writers in full-time jobs, Rossi had established something of a ritual for herself. The journey to and from work would be used to think through ideas and let inspiration hit -- keeping them in her head while avoiding homicidal truck drivers on her bike, and then scribbling them down on a notepad during the twenty-minute train ride -- and once she got back in the evening she'd get down to the serious work of changing the scraps and fragments into a serious story. After getting a plateful of toast and checking her e-mail, of course...
Tonight, she'd decided firmly, was going to be a night for adding to the latest tale in her Common People arc. She'd been having some vague ideas about a story centring on Fish for the last few days, and had come up with some ways to focus them over the course of a particularly boring day at work. Getting out her tatty notebook and sitting by the computer she looked through what she'd come up with during the day.
'Start off with Fish coming out of the gym,' she read. 'Bumps into a couple of mates of his and they head off down the pub.' She continued to read through the scribblings and let the story fall into place in her mind, half-closing her eyes as the images took over from normal sight. Fish in the bar, playing pool. General conversation between him and his friends about the sports clubs they're all at. Some more drinks -- beer, of course -- then some disruption over at the other end of the bar. They go over to see what's happening. Someone's getting picked on. Why? Not sure. Maybe a mutant -- no, don't need another mutant in these stories yet. Think up reason later. Fight starts. Fish gets involved and...
Rossi opened her eyes and shook her head. "I'm starting to channel Phil Foster here..." she muttered to herself. This was not exactly the story she had in mind. Turning to another leaf in the notebook she scanned through some other ideas she'd had, and closed her eyes again to think through the tale.
Starts out with Fish on a cliff edge in swimming gear. Below him is a thirty-foot drop to the water, a clear dark pool of liquid blue, a silver flicker of fish brushing past the surface, calling him to them. The smell of the sea is deep within him, his heart pulsing with the tide and the wind in his lungs. He leaps off the cliff edge and dives deep into the welcoming water, breathing through gills as he glides into the waves with effortless joy...
"Wow, where did *that* come from?" she asked herself. "It's been a *long* time since that sort of purple prose came out. Okay, let's try this again."
Another page of scribblings. A story being told by an old fisherman to a young boy, of fish-people who swam the waves in olden times, the mer-man of the sea...
She sat up with a start. "All right Frank, I don't know *what's* going on here, but you'd better have a very good explanation for it..." She looked around. "Frank? Frank, don't tell me you've been at the whisky again?" Further silence. This was unusual -- even when hung over Frank normally made an appearance at these evening writing sessions. She sighed -- it looked like there was little chance of her getting anything done tonight -- and then heard voices behind her.
"Mer-*maids*, Ieuan," a female voice said in a Welsh accent. "They're supposed to be mer-*maids*!"
"An' why the hell would an old fisherman be telling a young lad about them? He ain't gonna wanna hear tales about princesses under the sea, is he?" This voice was male, with an equally thick Welsh accent.
"In case you forgot, this was supposed to be a Common People story?"
Rossi turned to see two people standing in her small bedroom, apparently oblivious to her. The woman was wearing a simple jeans-and-t-shirt combination, and her long curly black hair was shaking round her head as she spoke irritably to the man. He was big, and heavily built, with a blood-red rugby shirt on, and was standing with his arms firmly folded while he argued back.
"Yeah, that's what I was starting it off as, remember? Bloke goes down the pub with his mates for a drink..."
"And gets into a fight. Of course." She rolled her eyes. "Can't you put *any* poetry into your stuff?"
"Uh, hey," Rossi said, bewildered by the display.
"Poetry? What, like 'heart pulsing with the tide,' and 'wind in his lungs'? That's supposed to be poetic?"
"It's a damn sight better than 'he goes down the pub and gets into a fight'. I know Rossi's Australian, but they're not all into that sort of story, you know!"
"Hey!" she called, getting up from the chair.
The man snorted. "From what I've heard they're even worse than the bloody English fer that sort of stuff..."
The woman sighed. "Can't you even try something different?"
Rossi, by this point had had enough of being ignored. She picked up her notepad and slammed it down on the table beside the two of them, loudly. "Would the pair of you just shut up for a minute?!" They did, and she took a deep breath. "Now. What exactly is going on here?"
***
As awakenings go, this one wasn't too bad, Phil decided. The pounding in his head was just a dull throb, his mouth felt like only the bottom of a budgie's cage, not a baby dragon's, and there didn't _seem_ to be any foreign objects in the bed with him. There was something tickling his face, though...
Phil opened his eyes.
"Arrgghh!!" he yelled, bolting upright and scrambling backwards against the bed-rest. The small green lizard that had been sitting on his nose went flying through the air, managing an impressive display of twists before landing in the bedclothes bunched at the foot of the bed.
"Humph," Frank huffed, scrambling to the relative safety of the bedpost. "Rossssi alwayss thinkss it'ss cute when I do that."
Once his heart rate had returned to something approximating normal, Phil managed to croak out: "Frank, wot th’ hell are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be on the other side of the globe, pestering your Writer?" Frank gave one of his sinuous lizard shrugs.
"Not really. Ieuan and Bronwyn are keeping her bussy at the moment."
"Ieuan and Bronwyn? Hang on a minute, there’s something funny going on here… Did I make another one of those bets I can’t remember when I’m sober?"
"No, we jusst decided to sswap for a while."
"Swap? Swap wot?"
"Writerss."
Phil looked at the lizard Muse with disbelief. "Are you trying to tell me you three exchanged Writers? How the hell did _that_ happen?"
"It’ss a long sstory…"
"It’s Saturday. I’ve got all the time in the world."
"Well, we were in the Café…"
***
"...at least you got 'er all to yourself, mate. Me, I'm sharing my Writer with the philosophy Queen herself." The large Muse with the Welsh accent drained his drink and waved the glass at the lizard sitting on the table in front of him. "Another one?"
"Pleasse," Frank replied, licking the last drops of whisky from his saucer. Ieuan returned a few moments later with a fresh pint and a filled saucer, and slumped back down on the seat -- he'd had more than a few tonight, and Frank was somewhat unsteady when he bent down to drink.
"So where was I...?"
Frank paused, trying to remember. "Acttion ssceness," he said at last. "That'sss right. Acttion ssceness."
"Oh yeah. Well, 'e's got more than enough of them down -- some pretty rough, some halfway decent. Y'know, good stuff. Real-life stuff, none of this cosmic powers everyone else is into."
There was another pause.
"And?" Frank hinted.
"An' he's not posted more than a couple of them in stories, is the problem. Every time he gets one of them down -- something in a pub, or out on the hills, or something set in the streets by the mountains -- he goes and gets all these daft ideas about how he's gotta put some metaphysical imagery over the whole tale, how there's gotta be some underlying meaning behind it. I dunno..."
There was another moment's silence. "At leassst you can get yourss to write action ssceness," Frank said at last. "Ass ssoon asss I ssuggesst anything like that to Rossssi sshe clamss up."
"Ain't got the personal experience to build from?" Ieuan suggested, with remarkable insight considering the drink he'd had.
"Oh sshe hass the experiencce -- sshe iss a martial artisst after all." He sipped at the whisky. "I think sshe jusst doessn't like doing them. I keep telling her that a good sstory needss good acttion ssceness but..." He trailed off, his head waving slightly.
Ieuan grunted. "Writers. Who needs them?"
They both looked at each other, then at the drinks.
"Cheerss."
"Iechyd da."
"Hi, boys," a female voice said. A woman with long black hair sat down at the table and took a long mouthful of her drink.
"Nicce to ssee you, Bronwyn," Frank replied. "I thought Ieuan ssaid you were working tonight?"
"I was," she sighed, with a glance over at Ieuan. "We'd agreed I'd have him to myself tonight to try and get further with the Swamp Thing fic."
"What happened?" Ieuan asked half-heartedly. "He get bogged down by the thirty levels of metaphor?"
Bronwyn sighed. "I'm really not in the mood tonight, Ieuan."
"Yeah, you're right. Sorry."
"That's okay."
They sat in silence for a moment more, before Frank spoke up again. "Sso, what happened?"
"Well we'd plotted it out as far as the fifth chapter, and he even found some good sites on the web for research. Did you know how much information there is out there on wildlife in the Louisiana Bayou?"
"And?"
"He wrote the first six paragraphs of the introduction, got too caught up in all the plot threads he was trying to juggle in his head and went down the pub." She sighed again and finished half her drink in one gulp. "Writers. Sometimes I almost feel jealous of you and Rossi, Frank."
Frank chuckled. "Sshe hass her good pointss, of coursse. But all Writerss can be a pain ssometimess -- and esspeccially Ausstralian oness who sspend too much time reading fic to do any proper writing."
"Still not as bad as a Writer who's trying to do two things at the same time," Ieuan snorted.
"That is partly our fault, Ieuan."
"Our fault? Nah. Calliope wouldn't have stuck the two of us with him if he hadn't wanted to write that sort of stuff in the first place."
"I suppose you're right."
More silence as they all finished their drinks. Bronwyn silently went up for the next round, and brought them over on a tray. "I heard Rossi's thinking of moving into Vertigo fanfic, Frank," she said.
"That'ss right. Ssshe'ss been assking me for ideass for a Death fic. Sshe wantss to branch out."
"And you say Rossi is having trouble with action scenes?"
"Trouble? Sshe never writess them!"
Ieuan lifted his pint up and glanced over at her. "There's something goin' on in that brain of yours, I can tell."
She smiled. "Well, Rossi wants to try some Vertigo fic, and I've been working with Phil on that for some time now, and she also has trouble with action scenes, which is one thing Ieuan *can* write."
"True," he agreed. Then realised the double edge to what she'd said. "Hey...!"
"And," she continued, ignoring his protest. "Phil could certainly do with a Muse who's a bit more... single-minded than he's used to.
Frank lifted his head from the whisky, swaying quite badly now. "Ssso what are you ssuggessting?"
"Honestly, you men. A few drinks and your brains stop working." She smiled. "I'm suggesting we swap Writers for a while."
***
"You mean to tell me you two and Frank got drunk and decided it would be ‘fun’ to swap Writers?" Rossi asked slowly, not trusting what she’d just heard.
"Well, _I_ wasn’t drunk. Much. I just thought it might be interesting," Bronwyn said with a smile. "But that’s the general idea."
Rossi sagged. "The two of you drove Phil nuts - what are you going to do to me?"
"About the same," Ieuan grinned.
"I’m doomed."
***
Somewhere in Paris a door slammed shut and a voice was heard yelling something decidedly un-sophisticated in English.
"Not enjoying the ssummer sstreetss of Parisss, then?" Frank chuckled from his spot on the keyboard of the laptop.
"The summer streets of Paris can go f--- themselves as far as I'm concerned," the Writer replied, lifting two heavy shopping bags onto the kitchen counter. "Dunno why I didn't get this stuff last night on the way back from work..."
"Becausse you went sstraight down the pub ass sssoon asss you got out of the officcce, from what you told me."
Phil glanced over at him from the kitchen. "Yeah, well there was a free beer on offer, weren't there?" He started unpacking the bags. "How far d'you get?"
Frank glanced back at the glowing screen. "I've been through everything you've got on your hard drive and tallied it up with what'sss in your head."
"And?"
"It'ss a complete messss."
"Yeah, very funny, Frank. Seriously, anything you can work with?" He finished un-packing the one bag of food and started pulling beer cans out of the other.
"I *wasss* being sseriouss," Frank replied, tapping vaguely at the keyboard. "It'ss a complete messss in here -- you've got enough plot-liness and sstory fragmentss to fill three novelsss; the only problem iss it'ss about asss organisssed as the Sssummer'ss family tree."
Phil sighed. "Yeah, that's what I get from the Welsh Wonders most days." He continued to pull beer cans from the bag, stacking them up two-high on the counter.
"'Welssh Wondersss," Frank replied with a chuckle. "I'll remember that one."
"Anything suggestions?"
"Throw it all out and sstart again?"
Phil sighed. "You serious?"
"Well, I could probably work with ssome of the sstuff here," Frank replied, taking pity on Phil's dejected expression. The lizard then nodded his nose over at the beer cans. "You're probably going to need thossse, though..."
***
Later...
"So, where do you reckon we start?"
Frank looked down at the screen, and then looked up at Phil again.
"Well?" Phil asked him when there was no response. Frank just looked at him. Phil looked back for a moment. "What?"
"Oh... nothing," Frank replied, looking back at the screen intently.
"What?!"
"It'ss jussst..." Frank tailed off.
"WHAT?!"
"Iss that really what you do when working on sstoriess?"
"Yeah? Why?" There was a threatening growl to Phil's voice. "What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing," Frank replied. "Only ssomehow I never pictured you ass the sssort of perssson who sspent Ssaturday afternoon doing the ironing and lisstening to the radio."
Phil glared at him for a moment, then returned to the ironing, muttering. "I gotta do it sometime, ain't I? Besides, it's not like I get the chance to play rugby any more."
"Sso instead you sspend the afternoon braving the physsical dangerss of the sshirt cuff," Frank said to himself.
"Wot was that?!"
"Nothing," Frank replied. He returned his gaze to the screen, and although it's physically impossible for lizards to grin, he managed it anyway.
***
"All right, how about this? Fish goes down to his local, gets really pissed, and tries to pick up the local thug’s girlfriend and gets into a brawl."
"No," Rossi puffed.
"Why not?"
"Because… it’s exactly… the same as… your last… six ideas," Rossi gasped. From his precarious seat on the luggage rack on the back of her bike, Ieuan shrugged. The action of a large, not terribly well-balanced Muse making a sudden movement nearly sent Rossi swerving off the road. "Stop wriggling!" she snapped, straining to bring them back on course. A four wheel drive roared past, horn blaring. Ieuan yelled something at it in Welsh that sounded a bit rude.
"Are you _sure_ you want to keep this particular part of your writin’ routine?" Ieuan asked as they stopped for a red light. Rossi nodded, her face a rather alarming shade of red.
"If I don’t get this plotting time, I don’t get anything done," she said, regaining her wind slowly, "And on the non-busy bits it works well."
"An’ on the busy bits?"
"I try not to get us killed. Or at least me. You’re immortal." At Ieuan’s sideways look, she shrugged. "Hey, it’s my system, and it works. Well, it works with Frank. He’s not as heavy as you."
"Frank’s a small reptile. Of course he’s not as heavy as me," Ieuan growled as the light turned green and Rossi hauled on the pedals to get them going again.
"While you’re a Welsh rugby-player built like a brick shit-house," Rossi grunted. "Now, c’mon, ideas. Ones that don’t involve pub brawls."
"You’re just as cranky as Phil, that’s for certain…"
"Phil and I share a lot of traits, our evil senses of humour being an example. Don’t push it or I’ll exercise mine." Rossi glanced over her shoulder, eyes big and misty. "Please? I’ve already told people I’d get this done soon."
"Phil definitely doesn’t do the Japanese thing with his eyes, though…" Ieuan grumbled, absently giving a passing Volvo the finger.
"What can I say? It’s a talent…"
***
Bronwyn was sitting at the computer when Rossi stomped in, Ieuan following in stony silence.
"How did it go?" she asked without looking up. Rossi glowered.
"Oh fine, until Inspiration Lad here decides to visit me at work."
"You never said I couldn’t," Ieuan retorted. "An’ it was a brilliant idea, wasn’t it?"
"Not in the middle of swearing in a witness, it wasn’t. Mr. Levine thinks I’m insane now."
"Who?" Bronwyn asked, watching the exchange with a small smile.
"The magistrate," Rossi grumbled. "The _Chief_ Magistrate, to be exact. I was clerking for him today because we were short staffed, and right in the middle of a case, Ieuan decides to materialise on the solicitors’ bar table and inspire me. I’m sure everyone was wondering why I was hissing at the police prosecutor to bugger off."
"Don’t tell me Frank never gives you ideas at work," Ieuan protested.
"Not any more, he doesn’t. We came to an agreement after I got promoted and got too busy. No ideas at work, unless it’s something he can sneak in during lunch hour or I’m sitting in on a civil case with nothing to do," Rossi explained.
"How about you go have a shower and get changed?" Bronwyn suggested. "Ieuan can make you a cup of tea."
"I can what?"
"Toast too?" Rossi asked, brightening.
"If you like." Bronwyn ignored Ieuan’s splutters. "I’ve been going over your work, and I have some ideas for you to discuss."
Rossi grinned and headed for the shower.
"Me? Why me? I don’t do kitchen stuff, remember?"
"Because you’ve had her for the whole day and gotten nowhere. It’s my turn. Besides, she’ll be a much more receptive mood if you make her toast."
"Fine. Just don’t expect me to touch that Vegemite stuff. It’s evil that is."
"It’s a by-product of beer, Ieuan."
"Exactly. A _by_-product. Give me the original any day."
***
"So what did you want to talk about?" Rossi asked, sitting at her computer happily munching toast - with jam. Bronwyn was perched on the edge of the large desk. Ieuan had gone off for some much-needed beer and rest after his kitchen endeavours.
"I was having a look around, and I found this." Bronwyn held up a small hardcover notebook. Rossi’s ears turned pink.
"Oh crap. I thought I threw that out," she muttered. Bronwyn smiled.
"You never said you wrote poetry," she said, turning over pages covered in Rossi’s scrawling handwriting.
"I don’t. Not since that Lit class in first year uni." Rossi pulled a face. "Talk about analysing something to death. I haven’t written poetry since. Probably just as well."
"Most of it is the usual teenage angst, true," Bronwyn continued with another of her mystery-tinged smiles. "But there are some nice phrases, and some interesting imagery."
Rossi looked over Bronwyn’s arm at the poem she was referring to. "Oh that. I had my moments, apparently. Too bad it doesn’t carry over into fanfic too well."
"Why can’t it?"
"You run the risk of sounding like a wanker if it goes wrong. I don’t think I’m good enough to pull it off."
"You’re starting to sound like Phil," Bronwyn said, leaning forward earnestly. "Words have their own magic, their own power. Use them well, and you can create worlds."
"Like Subreality?"
"Exactly. The reason why Subreality is so strong is because it’s built of the words of dozens of Writers. Every paragraph, every Round Robin, every poem and story just adds to the texture." Bronwyn’s dark eyes shone. "Magic still exists in this world, it’s just that much harder to find."
Rossi nodded slowly. "I think I see what you mean."
"So, care to give it a shot?"
"Where do we start?"
***
Another Phil bit…
***
"Are you _sure_ this is how Phil does things?" Rossi slurred, looking doubtfully at the ninth bottle of cider Ieuan placed in front of her.
"To write action scenes, you need to be relaxed," Ieuan grinned, sipping on his own pint. After an evening of working with Bronwyn, Rossi had agreed to let Ieuan try his own particular brand of inspiration. They’d been at the Café for quite a while, and because of the size disparity, Ieuan was only mildly intoxicated, while Rossi was what could only be described as ‘tanked’. "An’ drinkin’ lots of alcohol is the easiest way to do it."
"Whatever happened to meditation and contemplation?" Bronwyn murmured. She had come along to be the designated teleporter. Prior experience with Phil after these sessions had taught her a drunk Writer should never be allowed to handle a lap top. Explaining things to Calliope after last time had been tricky. Especially the part about showing up in the Collegium student shower room. The _female_ student shower room.
Rossi peered at Bronwyn owlishly. "Tried that. I fall asleep," she said happily. Her grin was more than a little lopsided. "Y’know, I could really go a curry…" She let her head thunk on the table. "Great. Now I’m turning _into_ Phil. If I start wearing rugby shirts and shaving my head, please shoot me."
Bronwyn and Ieuan exchanged looks over her head.
"What?" Ieuan asked innocently, Rossi’s last cider in hand. He hated the stuff - it was as weak as cat’s piss - but when in Rome, grab whatever free booze you could.
"Are you sure she can handle this?"
"Aussies are known for their ability to drink. ’S a national trait."
"I’d be more inclined to say a national stereotype. I just hope you know what you’re doing."
"Trust me."
"That’ll be the day."
Rossi let the exchange drift over her head as she sat there with her face on the table amidst the bottles, glasses, ashtrays… ‘Ashtrays? Since when do I smoke?’ asked the tiny sober part of her mind, but was overwhelmed by the rest asking for a nice veggie vindaloo. Gradually, another urge made itself felt. Rossi’s face turned slightly green.
"Urp. ‘Scuse me," she said, hauling herself up off the seat. "Gotta go. Bathroom."
The two Welsh Muses watched their charge stumble to the Ladies’.
"What now?" asked Bronwyn.
"We let Subreality take it’s course," grinned Ieuan, another pint appearing in his hand. "I’ll give it about five minutes before narrative causality kicks in."
"The traditional pub brawl?"
"Exactly."
It took three minutes, actually. Rossi stumbled out of the bathroom, straight into a Gambit. This one was clearly written by a fangirl, all smouldering mysterious good looks and wicked charm. The compulsory Mary Sue girlfriend was over at the bar getting the next round of drinks.
"Hey chere, Gambit t’inks you should be looking where you are going, no?" Even in her extremely drunken state, Rossi winced at the accent. "Where be such a cute lil’ t’ing as y’self goin’ in such a hurry?"
"As far away from overwritten Cajun accents as possible," Rossi muttered, trying to edge away. But whoever had written this Gambit had given him an ego the size of a small continent, and he wasn’t about to be brushed off.
"I t’ink Fate brought us t’get’er f’r a reason, chere," he said, dropping letters all over the place now, "An’ y’ can’ be denyin’ Fate."
"Just watch me," growled Rossi, stomping on the Cajun’s foot with a solid hiking boot. When he yelped and started hopping around on one foot, Rossi kicked the other leg out from under him, smiling at the satisfying ‘crack’ of his knee as she broke it.
"REMY!" The anguished scream came from a woman with flaming red-gold hair, impossibly deep and limpid blue eyes, and a figure that would not have looked out of place on a Barbie doll. The air was crackling around her with ominous energy.
"Oh, was this slime ball your One True Love?" asked Rossi, nudging the moaning figure with his foot. "You really ought to keep him on a leash."
"How dare you! If you’ve hurt him in any way…"
"You mean like this?" Rossi stepped on the fingers grabbing at her ankle, eliciting another whimper.
"That does it! Prepare to face the wrath of a demi-goddess telekinetic imbued with the power of the Phoenix and Chosen of the Clan Askani!"
"Another one? Give me a break. Come back when your Writer gives you an original power, for a start."
"I’ll give you original power, you… you HUSSY!"
"Oh, blow it out your bum."
Over at their table, the two Muses watched the escalating exchange with amusement.
"It looks like your plan’s working," Bronwyn remarked, as Rossi ducked the TK blast aimed at her by the enraged ‘original’ fictive. The blast ploughed into a table of Kaylee fictives, setting off the inevitable chain reaction of all bar fights. Kai decked a Jean for no apparent reason other than for the sheer hell of it.
"So it is," Ieuan replied contentedly, watching the melee with approval. "Just hope she remembers this later."
"You don’t think we should step in?" The Mary Sue squealed as Rossi managed to grab her ridiculously long hair and used it to swing the unfortunate fictive into a table where Darth Maul and Obi Wan from the Phantom Menace were gazing lovingly into each others’ eyes.
"Not yet. She can handle it."
"Just remember Frank won’t like it if we let his Writer get killed in a pub brawl."
"Relax. These things are never fatal. At least, not fer Writers," Ieuan added as Darth Maul fired up his double ended light sabre, unfortunately slicing off a Thor’s beard in the process.
In the midst of everything, the tiny sober part of Rossi’s brain finally screamed loudly enough to get the rest of her brain - which was having the time of its life - to shut up. Then it said in a quiet, calm voice: "We’re all going to die."
Rossi looked up to find that somehow she’d started a full on riot. The tiny sober part of her brain promptly keeled over in a dead faint.
"Whoo hoo!" the rest cheered.
Things got… messy.
***"Hang on a minute, just what the hell d’you think you’re doin’?"
"What?"
"You can’t think I’ll let you get away with this ‘things got messy’ bollocks, do you?"
"Um, actually, I was hoping you wouldn’t notice, Ieuan."
"No such luck, sunshine. I want a proper fight scene out o’ you!"
"But…"
"No buts. You wanted to do this my way, an’ that means no shirkin’, hangover or not."
"Bloody slave driver…"***
Rossi had only been in one other pub brawl, and that was during her newbie days as an X-Info reporter. This time she meant to enjoy herself, especially after ducking under a table briefly to Write herself a bit of super-strength to even things up a bit. The expression on the face of the ‘original’ fictive was priceless as Rossi threw her along the bar in traditional pub brawl style. Since this happened at least once a week, the regulars simply lifted their drinks as the unfortunate Mary Sue slid along the bar, acting as an extra-large bar cloth, to crash into a mercifully unconscious huddle at the end. Joe Bob the Donkey regarded her for a moment, and then began thoughtfully chewing on her hair. Those drinkers who _weren’t_ regulars lost their drinks, and joined in the melee with enthusiasm.
"You know, if the place gets destroyed again, Kielle will hold us responsible," Bronwyn pointed out to Ieuan. Ieuan winced as Rossi side-stepped a Colossus - fortunately in metal form - and evened up the height difference by elbowing him in the groin. There was a loud clang.
"That’s gotta hurt. Poor bastard." He looked at his co-Muse. "This place gets knocked down, exploded, or sucked into an alternate dimension every other week. What’s a little bar fight gonna do?"
"Your ‘little bar fight’ is rapidly escalating into another Fictive War," Bronwyn pointed out as Thor used his hammer to turn Darth Maul into a smoking grease spot on the floor. The Rachel Summers fictive who slipped in what remained of the Dark Side apprentice was not pleased, to judge by the swearing and sudden flaring of the Phoenix effect. "And our Writer, our _borrowed_ Writer, is in the middle of it. Do you remember what the Bouncer told you he’d do to you if you did this again this month?"
"It doesn’t bear thinkin’ about, actually," Ieuan winced. "You might have a point, for once. Care to do the honours?"
"With pleasure." Bronwyn waved her hand, and the two Muses and the one brawling Writer disappeared, leaving behind a room full of brawling fictives, a very pissed off Bouncer, and Rossi’s Subreality credit card in the hands of the Major, to cover the expenses of the evening’s work.
***
***
Like many Writers in full-time jobs, Rossi had established something of a ritual for herself. The journey to and from work would be used to think through ideas and let inspiration hit -- keeping them in her head while avoiding homicidal truck drivers on her bike, and then scribbling them down on a notepad during the twenty-minute train ride -- and once she got back in the evening she'd get down to the serious work of changing the scraps and fragments into a serious story. After getting a plateful of toast and checking her e-mail, of course...
Tonight, she'd decided firmly, was going to be a night for adding to the latest tale in her Common People arc. She'd been having some vague ideas about a story centring on Fish for the last few days, and had come up with some ways to focus them over the course of a particularly boring day at work. Getting out her tatty notebook and sitting by the computer she looked through what she'd come up with during the day.
'Start off with Fish coming out of the gym,' she read. 'Bumps into a couple of mates of his and they head off down the pub.' She continued to read through the scribblings and let the story fall into place in her mind, half-closing her eyes as the images took over from normal sight. Fish in the bar, playing pool. General conversation between him and his friends about the sports clubs they're all at. Some more drinks -- beer, of course -- then some disruption over at the other end of the bar. They go over to see what's happening. Someone's getting picked on. Why? Not sure. Maybe a mutant -- no, don't need another mutant in these stories yet. Think up reason later. Fight starts. Fish gets involved and...
Rossi opened her eyes and shook her head. "I'm starting to channel Phil Foster here..." she muttered to herself. This was not exactly the story she had in mind. Turning to another leaf in the notebook she scanned through some other ideas she'd had, and closed her eyes again to think through the tale.
Starts out with Fish on a cliff edge in swimming gear. Below him is a thirty-foot drop to the water, a clear dark pool of liquid blue, a silver flicker of fish brushing past the surface, calling him to them. The smell of the sea is deep within him, his heart pulsing with the tide and the wind in his lungs. He leaps off the cliff edge and dives deep into the welcoming water, breathing through gills as he glides into the waves with effortless joy...
"Wow, where did *that* come from?" she asked herself. "It's been a *long* time since that sort of purple prose came out. Okay, let's try this again."
Another page of scribblings. A story being told by an old fisherman to a young boy, of fish-people who swam the waves in olden times, the mer-man of the sea...
She sat up with a start. "All right Frank, I don't know *what's* going on here, but you'd better have a very good explanation for it..." She looked around. "Frank? Frank, don't tell me you've been at the whisky again?" Further silence. This was unusual -- even when hung over Frank normally made an appearance at these evening writing sessions. She sighed -- it looked like there was little chance of her getting anything done tonight -- and then heard voices behind her.
"Mer-*maids*, Ieuan," a female voice said in a Welsh accent. "They're supposed to be mer-*maids*!"
"An' why the hell would an old fisherman be telling a young lad about them? He ain't gonna wanna hear tales about princesses under the sea, is he?" This voice was male, with an equally thick Welsh accent.
"In case you forgot, this was supposed to be a Common People story?"
Rossi turned to see two people standing in her small bedroom, apparently oblivious to her. The woman was wearing a simple jeans-and-t-shirt combination, and her long curly black hair was shaking round her head as she spoke irritably to the man. He was big, and heavily built, with a blood-red rugby shirt on, and was standing with his arms firmly folded while he argued back.
"Yeah, that's what I was starting it off as, remember? Bloke goes down the pub with his mates for a drink..."
"And gets into a fight. Of course." She rolled her eyes. "Can't you put *any* poetry into your stuff?"
"Uh, hey," Rossi said, bewildered by the display.
"Poetry? What, like 'heart pulsing with the tide,' and 'wind in his lungs'? That's supposed to be poetic?"
"It's a damn sight better than 'he goes down the pub and gets into a fight'. I know Rossi's Australian, but they're not all into that sort of story, you know!"
"Hey!" she called, getting up from the chair.
The man snorted. "From what I've heard they're even worse than the bloody English fer that sort of stuff..."
The woman sighed. "Can't you even try something different?"
Rossi, by this point had had enough of being ignored. She picked up her notepad and slammed it down on the table beside the two of them, loudly. "Would the pair of you just shut up for a minute?!" They did, and she took a deep breath. "Now. What exactly is going on here?"
***
As awakenings go, this one wasn't too bad, Phil decided. The pounding in his head was just a dull throb, his mouth felt like only the bottom of a budgie's cage, not a baby dragon's, and there didn't _seem_ to be any foreign objects in the bed with him. There was something tickling his face, though...
Phil opened his eyes.
"Arrgghh!!" he yelled, bolting upright and scrambling backwards against the bed-rest. The small green lizard that had been sitting on his nose went flying through the air, managing an impressive display of twists before landing in the bedclothes bunched at the foot of the bed.
"Humph," Frank huffed, scrambling to the relative safety of the bedpost. "Rossssi alwayss thinkss it'ss cute when I do that."
Once his heart rate had returned to something approximating normal, Phil managed to croak out: "Frank, wot th’ hell are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be on the other side of the globe, pestering your Writer?" Frank gave one of his sinuous lizard shrugs.
"Not really. Ieuan and Bronwyn are keeping her bussy at the moment."
"Ieuan and Bronwyn? Hang on a minute, there’s something funny going on here… Did I make another one of those bets I can’t remember when I’m sober?"
"No, we jusst decided to sswap for a while."
"Swap? Swap wot?"
"Writerss."
Phil looked at the lizard Muse with disbelief. "Are you trying to tell me you three exchanged Writers? How the hell did _that_ happen?"
"It’ss a long sstory…"
"It’s Saturday. I’ve got all the time in the world."
"Well, we were in the Café…"
***
"...at least you got 'er all to yourself, mate. Me, I'm sharing my Writer with the philosophy Queen herself." The large Muse with the Welsh accent drained his drink and waved the glass at the lizard sitting on the table in front of him. "Another one?"
"Pleasse," Frank replied, licking the last drops of whisky from his saucer. Ieuan returned a few moments later with a fresh pint and a filled saucer, and slumped back down on the seat -- he'd had more than a few tonight, and Frank was somewhat unsteady when he bent down to drink.
"So where was I...?"
Frank paused, trying to remember. "Acttion ssceness," he said at last. "That'sss right. Acttion ssceness."
"Oh yeah. Well, 'e's got more than enough of them down -- some pretty rough, some halfway decent. Y'know, good stuff. Real-life stuff, none of this cosmic powers everyone else is into."
There was another pause.
"And?" Frank hinted.
"An' he's not posted more than a couple of them in stories, is the problem. Every time he gets one of them down -- something in a pub, or out on the hills, or something set in the streets by the mountains -- he goes and gets all these daft ideas about how he's gotta put some metaphysical imagery over the whole tale, how there's gotta be some underlying meaning behind it. I dunno..."
There was another moment's silence. "At leassst you can get yourss to write action ssceness," Frank said at last. "Ass ssoon asss I ssuggesst anything like that to Rossssi sshe clamss up."
"Ain't got the personal experience to build from?" Ieuan suggested, with remarkable insight considering the drink he'd had.
"Oh sshe hass the experiencce -- sshe iss a martial artisst after all." He sipped at the whisky. "I think sshe jusst doessn't like doing them. I keep telling her that a good sstory needss good acttion ssceness but..." He trailed off, his head waving slightly.
Ieuan grunted. "Writers. Who needs them?"
They both looked at each other, then at the drinks.
"Cheerss."
"Iechyd da."
"Hi, boys," a female voice said. A woman with long black hair sat down at the table and took a long mouthful of her drink.
"Nicce to ssee you, Bronwyn," Frank replied. "I thought Ieuan ssaid you were working tonight?"
"I was," she sighed, with a glance over at Ieuan. "We'd agreed I'd have him to myself tonight to try and get further with the Swamp Thing fic."
"What happened?" Ieuan asked half-heartedly. "He get bogged down by the thirty levels of metaphor?"
Bronwyn sighed. "I'm really not in the mood tonight, Ieuan."
"Yeah, you're right. Sorry."
"That's okay."
They sat in silence for a moment more, before Frank spoke up again. "Sso, what happened?"
"Well we'd plotted it out as far as the fifth chapter, and he even found some good sites on the web for research. Did you know how much information there is out there on wildlife in the Louisiana Bayou?"
"And?"
"He wrote the first six paragraphs of the introduction, got too caught up in all the plot threads he was trying to juggle in his head and went down the pub." She sighed again and finished half her drink in one gulp. "Writers. Sometimes I almost feel jealous of you and Rossi, Frank."
Frank chuckled. "Sshe hass her good pointss, of coursse. But all Writerss can be a pain ssometimess -- and esspeccially Ausstralian oness who sspend too much time reading fic to do any proper writing."
"Still not as bad as a Writer who's trying to do two things at the same time," Ieuan snorted.
"That is partly our fault, Ieuan."
"Our fault? Nah. Calliope wouldn't have stuck the two of us with him if he hadn't wanted to write that sort of stuff in the first place."
"I suppose you're right."
More silence as they all finished their drinks. Bronwyn silently went up for the next round, and brought them over on a tray. "I heard Rossi's thinking of moving into Vertigo fanfic, Frank," she said.
"That'ss right. Ssshe'ss been assking me for ideass for a Death fic. Sshe wantss to branch out."
"And you say Rossi is having trouble with action scenes?"
"Trouble? Sshe never writess them!"
Ieuan lifted his pint up and glanced over at her. "There's something goin' on in that brain of yours, I can tell."
She smiled. "Well, Rossi wants to try some Vertigo fic, and I've been working with Phil on that for some time now, and she also has trouble with action scenes, which is one thing Ieuan *can* write."
"True," he agreed. Then realised the double edge to what she'd said. "Hey...!"
"And," she continued, ignoring his protest. "Phil could certainly do with a Muse who's a bit more... single-minded than he's used to.
Frank lifted his head from the whisky, swaying quite badly now. "Ssso what are you ssuggessting?"
"Honestly, you men. A few drinks and your brains stop working." She smiled. "I'm suggesting we swap Writers for a while."
***
"You mean to tell me you two and Frank got drunk and decided it would be ‘fun’ to swap Writers?" Rossi asked slowly, not trusting what she’d just heard.
"Well, _I_ wasn’t drunk. Much. I just thought it might be interesting," Bronwyn said with a smile. "But that’s the general idea."
Rossi sagged. "The two of you drove Phil nuts - what are you going to do to me?"
"About the same," Ieuan grinned.
"I’m doomed."
***
Somewhere in Paris a door slammed shut and a voice was heard yelling something decidedly un-sophisticated in English.
"Not enjoying the ssummer sstreetss of Parisss, then?" Frank chuckled from his spot on the keyboard of the laptop.
"The summer streets of Paris can go f--- themselves as far as I'm concerned," the Writer replied, lifting two heavy shopping bags onto the kitchen counter. "Dunno why I didn't get this stuff last night on the way back from work..."
"Becausse you went sstraight down the pub ass sssoon asss you got out of the officcce, from what you told me."
Phil glanced over at him from the kitchen. "Yeah, well there was a free beer on offer, weren't there?" He started unpacking the bags. "How far d'you get?"
Frank glanced back at the glowing screen. "I've been through everything you've got on your hard drive and tallied it up with what'sss in your head."
"And?"
"It'ss a complete messss."
"Yeah, very funny, Frank. Seriously, anything you can work with?" He finished un-packing the one bag of food and started pulling beer cans out of the other.
"I *wasss* being sseriouss," Frank replied, tapping vaguely at the keyboard. "It'ss a complete messss in here -- you've got enough plot-liness and sstory fragmentss to fill three novelsss; the only problem iss it'ss about asss organisssed as the Sssummer'ss family tree."
Phil sighed. "Yeah, that's what I get from the Welsh Wonders most days." He continued to pull beer cans from the bag, stacking them up two-high on the counter.
"'Welssh Wondersss," Frank replied with a chuckle. "I'll remember that one."
"Anything suggestions?"
"Throw it all out and sstart again?"
Phil sighed. "You serious?"
"Well, I could probably work with ssome of the sstuff here," Frank replied, taking pity on Phil's dejected expression. The lizard then nodded his nose over at the beer cans. "You're probably going to need thossse, though..."
***
Later...
"So, where do you reckon we start?"
Frank looked down at the screen, and then looked up at Phil again.
"Well?" Phil asked him when there was no response. Frank just looked at him. Phil looked back for a moment. "What?"
"Oh... nothing," Frank replied, looking back at the screen intently.
"What?!"
"It'ss jussst..." Frank tailed off.
"WHAT?!"
"Iss that really what you do when working on sstoriess?"
"Yeah? Why?" There was a threatening growl to Phil's voice. "What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing," Frank replied. "Only ssomehow I never pictured you ass the sssort of perssson who sspent Ssaturday afternoon doing the ironing and lisstening to the radio."
Phil glared at him for a moment, then returned to the ironing, muttering. "I gotta do it sometime, ain't I? Besides, it's not like I get the chance to play rugby any more."
"Sso instead you sspend the afternoon braving the physsical dangerss of the sshirt cuff," Frank said to himself.
"Wot was that?!"
"Nothing," Frank replied. He returned his gaze to the screen, and although it's physically impossible for lizards to grin, he managed it anyway.
***
"All right, how about this? Fish goes down to his local, gets really pissed, and tries to pick up the local thug’s girlfriend and gets into a brawl."
"No," Rossi puffed.
"Why not?"
"Because… it’s exactly… the same as… your last… six ideas," Rossi gasped. From his precarious seat on the luggage rack on the back of her bike, Ieuan shrugged. The action of a large, not terribly well-balanced Muse making a sudden movement nearly sent Rossi swerving off the road. "Stop wriggling!" she snapped, straining to bring them back on course. A four wheel drive roared past, horn blaring. Ieuan yelled something at it in Welsh that sounded a bit rude.
"Are you _sure_ you want to keep this particular part of your writin’ routine?" Ieuan asked as they stopped for a red light. Rossi nodded, her face a rather alarming shade of red.
"If I don’t get this plotting time, I don’t get anything done," she said, regaining her wind slowly, "And on the non-busy bits it works well."
"An’ on the busy bits?"
"I try not to get us killed. Or at least me. You’re immortal." At Ieuan’s sideways look, she shrugged. "Hey, it’s my system, and it works. Well, it works with Frank. He’s not as heavy as you."
"Frank’s a small reptile. Of course he’s not as heavy as me," Ieuan growled as the light turned green and Rossi hauled on the pedals to get them going again.
"While you’re a Welsh rugby-player built like a brick shit-house," Rossi grunted. "Now, c’mon, ideas. Ones that don’t involve pub brawls."
"You’re just as cranky as Phil, that’s for certain…"
"Phil and I share a lot of traits, our evil senses of humour being an example. Don’t push it or I’ll exercise mine." Rossi glanced over her shoulder, eyes big and misty. "Please? I’ve already told people I’d get this done soon."
"Phil definitely doesn’t do the Japanese thing with his eyes, though…" Ieuan grumbled, absently giving a passing Volvo the finger.
"What can I say? It’s a talent…"
***
Bronwyn was sitting at the computer when Rossi stomped in, Ieuan following in stony silence.
"How did it go?" she asked without looking up. Rossi glowered.
"Oh fine, until Inspiration Lad here decides to visit me at work."
"You never said I couldn’t," Ieuan retorted. "An’ it was a brilliant idea, wasn’t it?"
"Not in the middle of swearing in a witness, it wasn’t. Mr. Levine thinks I’m insane now."
"Who?" Bronwyn asked, watching the exchange with a small smile.
"The magistrate," Rossi grumbled. "The _Chief_ Magistrate, to be exact. I was clerking for him today because we were short staffed, and right in the middle of a case, Ieuan decides to materialise on the solicitors’ bar table and inspire me. I’m sure everyone was wondering why I was hissing at the police prosecutor to bugger off."
"Don’t tell me Frank never gives you ideas at work," Ieuan protested.
"Not any more, he doesn’t. We came to an agreement after I got promoted and got too busy. No ideas at work, unless it’s something he can sneak in during lunch hour or I’m sitting in on a civil case with nothing to do," Rossi explained.
"How about you go have a shower and get changed?" Bronwyn suggested. "Ieuan can make you a cup of tea."
"I can what?"
"Toast too?" Rossi asked, brightening.
"If you like." Bronwyn ignored Ieuan’s splutters. "I’ve been going over your work, and I have some ideas for you to discuss."
Rossi grinned and headed for the shower.
"Me? Why me? I don’t do kitchen stuff, remember?"
"Because you’ve had her for the whole day and gotten nowhere. It’s my turn. Besides, she’ll be a much more receptive mood if you make her toast."
"Fine. Just don’t expect me to touch that Vegemite stuff. It’s evil that is."
"It’s a by-product of beer, Ieuan."
"Exactly. A _by_-product. Give me the original any day."
***
"So what did you want to talk about?" Rossi asked, sitting at her computer happily munching toast - with jam. Bronwyn was perched on the edge of the large desk. Ieuan had gone off for some much-needed beer and rest after his kitchen endeavours.
"I was having a look around, and I found this." Bronwyn held up a small hardcover notebook. Rossi’s ears turned pink.
"Oh crap. I thought I threw that out," she muttered. Bronwyn smiled.
"You never said you wrote poetry," she said, turning over pages covered in Rossi’s scrawling handwriting.
"I don’t. Not since that Lit class in first year uni." Rossi pulled a face. "Talk about analysing something to death. I haven’t written poetry since. Probably just as well."
"Most of it is the usual teenage angst, true," Bronwyn continued with another of her mystery-tinged smiles. "But there are some nice phrases, and some interesting imagery."
Rossi looked over Bronwyn’s arm at the poem she was referring to. "Oh that. I had my moments, apparently. Too bad it doesn’t carry over into fanfic too well."
"Why can’t it?"
"You run the risk of sounding like a wanker if it goes wrong. I don’t think I’m good enough to pull it off."
"You’re starting to sound like Phil," Bronwyn said, leaning forward earnestly. "Words have their own magic, their own power. Use them well, and you can create worlds."
"Like Subreality?"
"Exactly. The reason why Subreality is so strong is because it’s built of the words of dozens of Writers. Every paragraph, every Round Robin, every poem and story just adds to the texture." Bronwyn’s dark eyes shone. "Magic still exists in this world, it’s just that much harder to find."
Rossi nodded slowly. "I think I see what you mean."
"So, care to give it a shot?"
"Where do we start?"
***
Another Phil bit…
***
"Are you _sure_ this is how Phil does things?" Rossi slurred, looking doubtfully at the ninth bottle of cider Ieuan placed in front of her.
"To write action scenes, you need to be relaxed," Ieuan grinned, sipping on his own pint. After an evening of working with Bronwyn, Rossi had agreed to let Ieuan try his own particular brand of inspiration. They’d been at the Café for quite a while, and because of the size disparity, Ieuan was only mildly intoxicated, while Rossi was what could only be described as ‘tanked’. "An’ drinkin’ lots of alcohol is the easiest way to do it."
"Whatever happened to meditation and contemplation?" Bronwyn murmured. She had come along to be the designated teleporter. Prior experience with Phil after these sessions had taught her a drunk Writer should never be allowed to handle a lap top. Explaining things to Calliope after last time had been tricky. Especially the part about showing up in the Collegium student shower room. The _female_ student shower room.
Rossi peered at Bronwyn owlishly. "Tried that. I fall asleep," she said happily. Her grin was more than a little lopsided. "Y’know, I could really go a curry…" She let her head thunk on the table. "Great. Now I’m turning _into_ Phil. If I start wearing rugby shirts and shaving my head, please shoot me."
Bronwyn and Ieuan exchanged looks over her head.
"What?" Ieuan asked innocently, Rossi’s last cider in hand. He hated the stuff - it was as weak as cat’s piss - but when in Rome, grab whatever free booze you could.
"Are you sure she can handle this?"
"Aussies are known for their ability to drink. ’S a national trait."
"I’d be more inclined to say a national stereotype. I just hope you know what you’re doing."
"Trust me."
"That’ll be the day."
Rossi let the exchange drift over her head as she sat there with her face on the table amidst the bottles, glasses, ashtrays… ‘Ashtrays? Since when do I smoke?’ asked the tiny sober part of her mind, but was overwhelmed by the rest asking for a nice veggie vindaloo. Gradually, another urge made itself felt. Rossi’s face turned slightly green.
"Urp. ‘Scuse me," she said, hauling herself up off the seat. "Gotta go. Bathroom."
The two Welsh Muses watched their charge stumble to the Ladies’.
"What now?" asked Bronwyn.
"We let Subreality take it’s course," grinned Ieuan, another pint appearing in his hand. "I’ll give it about five minutes before narrative causality kicks in."
"The traditional pub brawl?"
"Exactly."
It took three minutes, actually. Rossi stumbled out of the bathroom, straight into a Gambit. This one was clearly written by a fangirl, all smouldering mysterious good looks and wicked charm. The compulsory Mary Sue girlfriend was over at the bar getting the next round of drinks.
"Hey chere, Gambit t’inks you should be looking where you are going, no?" Even in her extremely drunken state, Rossi winced at the accent. "Where be such a cute lil’ t’ing as y’self goin’ in such a hurry?"
"As far away from overwritten Cajun accents as possible," Rossi muttered, trying to edge away. But whoever had written this Gambit had given him an ego the size of a small continent, and he wasn’t about to be brushed off.
"I t’ink Fate brought us t’get’er f’r a reason, chere," he said, dropping letters all over the place now, "An’ y’ can’ be denyin’ Fate."
"Just watch me," growled Rossi, stomping on the Cajun’s foot with a solid hiking boot. When he yelped and started hopping around on one foot, Rossi kicked the other leg out from under him, smiling at the satisfying ‘crack’ of his knee as she broke it.
"REMY!" The anguished scream came from a woman with flaming red-gold hair, impossibly deep and limpid blue eyes, and a figure that would not have looked out of place on a Barbie doll. The air was crackling around her with ominous energy.
"Oh, was this slime ball your One True Love?" asked Rossi, nudging the moaning figure with his foot. "You really ought to keep him on a leash."
"How dare you! If you’ve hurt him in any way…"
"You mean like this?" Rossi stepped on the fingers grabbing at her ankle, eliciting another whimper.
"That does it! Prepare to face the wrath of a demi-goddess telekinetic imbued with the power of the Phoenix and Chosen of the Clan Askani!"
"Another one? Give me a break. Come back when your Writer gives you an original power, for a start."
"I’ll give you original power, you… you HUSSY!"
"Oh, blow it out your bum."
Over at their table, the two Muses watched the escalating exchange with amusement.
"It looks like your plan’s working," Bronwyn remarked, as Rossi ducked the TK blast aimed at her by the enraged ‘original’ fictive. The blast ploughed into a table of Kaylee fictives, setting off the inevitable chain reaction of all bar fights. Kai decked a Jean for no apparent reason other than for the sheer hell of it.
"So it is," Ieuan replied contentedly, watching the melee with approval. "Just hope she remembers this later."
"You don’t think we should step in?" The Mary Sue squealed as Rossi managed to grab her ridiculously long hair and used it to swing the unfortunate fictive into a table where Darth Maul and Obi Wan from the Phantom Menace were gazing lovingly into each others’ eyes.
"Not yet. She can handle it."
"Just remember Frank won’t like it if we let his Writer get killed in a pub brawl."
"Relax. These things are never fatal. At least, not fer Writers," Ieuan added as Darth Maul fired up his double ended light sabre, unfortunately slicing off a Thor’s beard in the process.
In the midst of everything, the tiny sober part of Rossi’s brain finally screamed loudly enough to get the rest of her brain - which was having the time of its life - to shut up. Then it said in a quiet, calm voice: "We’re all going to die."
Rossi looked up to find that somehow she’d started a full on riot. The tiny sober part of her brain promptly keeled over in a dead faint.
"Whoo hoo!" the rest cheered.
Things got… messy.
***"Hang on a minute, just what the hell d’you think you’re doin’?"
"What?"
"You can’t think I’ll let you get away with this ‘things got messy’ bollocks, do you?"
"Um, actually, I was hoping you wouldn’t notice, Ieuan."
"No such luck, sunshine. I want a proper fight scene out o’ you!"
"But…"
"No buts. You wanted to do this my way, an’ that means no shirkin’, hangover or not."
"Bloody slave driver…"***
Rossi had only been in one other pub brawl, and that was during her newbie days as an X-Info reporter. This time she meant to enjoy herself, especially after ducking under a table briefly to Write herself a bit of super-strength to even things up a bit. The expression on the face of the ‘original’ fictive was priceless as Rossi threw her along the bar in traditional pub brawl style. Since this happened at least once a week, the regulars simply lifted their drinks as the unfortunate Mary Sue slid along the bar, acting as an extra-large bar cloth, to crash into a mercifully unconscious huddle at the end. Joe Bob the Donkey regarded her for a moment, and then began thoughtfully chewing on her hair. Those drinkers who _weren’t_ regulars lost their drinks, and joined in the melee with enthusiasm.
"You know, if the place gets destroyed again, Kielle will hold us responsible," Bronwyn pointed out to Ieuan. Ieuan winced as Rossi side-stepped a Colossus - fortunately in metal form - and evened up the height difference by elbowing him in the groin. There was a loud clang.
"That’s gotta hurt. Poor bastard." He looked at his co-Muse. "This place gets knocked down, exploded, or sucked into an alternate dimension every other week. What’s a little bar fight gonna do?"
"Your ‘little bar fight’ is rapidly escalating into another Fictive War," Bronwyn pointed out as Thor used his hammer to turn Darth Maul into a smoking grease spot on the floor. The Rachel Summers fictive who slipped in what remained of the Dark Side apprentice was not pleased, to judge by the swearing and sudden flaring of the Phoenix effect. "And our Writer, our _borrowed_ Writer, is in the middle of it. Do you remember what the Bouncer told you he’d do to you if you did this again this month?"
"It doesn’t bear thinkin’ about, actually," Ieuan winced. "You might have a point, for once. Care to do the honours?"
"With pleasure." Bronwyn waved her hand, and the two Muses and the one brawling Writer disappeared, leaving behind a room full of brawling fictives, a very pissed off Bouncer, and Rossi’s Subreality credit card in the hands of the Major, to cover the expenses of the evening’s work.
***
