Here's one from the archives...
Dec. 13th, 2022 05:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deathpixieSo I've been working on the Fanlore Wiki on and off lately and I've been specifically working on the CBFFAs page today. With lots of diving and researching and massive use of the Wayback Machine, I've been able to create a full-ish history of the awards. I say "ish" because I can't locate the 2003 results anywhere (since the contents of OTL are inaccessible and I don't have access to that old email account any way). But I did find my segment for the award ceremony! And since there's nowhere else to post it, I'm going to post it here:
***
“Halt, police! Stop or we’ll shoot! Which, seeing as you have Powers and all, probably won’t do squat, but we’ll do it anyway! Hold it right there!”
It could have been a scene from any one of a dozen cop dramas. A man-made canyon landscape of towering buildings with darkened alleys snaking between them, the dirty streets an ever-beleaguered Force struggled to keep clean. The suspect, fleeing the scene, ducking down alleys and scrambling over chain-link fences in an attempt to evade the long arm of the law. The law in question, Detectives Christian Walker and Deena Pilgrim, in hot pursuit; Pilgrim slightly ahead due to the fact she was dressed for running after crooks, as opposed to Walker in his black suit and dress shoes. Apart from Pilgrim’s not-quite-regulation demand, the sequence could have been enacted in a dozen series across fandoms, from the hard streets of New York, to the housing estates of Sun Hill, London.
“Stop! Aw man, Walker, he’s making some kind of portal-thingie…”
“Well, don’t do anything stupid like follow him through it. You could end up… Dammit, Deena, I told you to… Wait!”
The big man – tall and broad to superhero specifications – looks at the rippling, distorted space into which his diminutive partner has thrown herself, and heaves a well-practised sigh of defeat. Not even the actually-quite-cute detective’s habit of wearing little belly shirts all day is worth the amount of hassle she generates. But, she is a good cop, despite the impetuosity, and she _is_ his partner. So he hurls himself after her. Of course, it’s just in the nick of time – the portal closes with a muffled “POP” as soon as he passes through it.
The first thing he notices after the usual teleportional dislocation is the light. Bright, hot… he squints up into the glare and realises it comes from an array of spotlights and they’re all firmly pointed at him. Or rather, him and Deena, who is standing behind some sort of podium, upon which rests several cue cards, an envelope, and a small gold statuette of a naked anatomically-blurry man.
The second thing Walker realises is that they’re on a stage, and the darkness beyond its edge is filled with people. Many, many people, looking at him with expectant bemusement.
The third thing is that he is lying sprawled across a couple of people, neither of whom is their perp. They’re wearing evening dress, and have quite effectively broken his fall. Unfortunately, his fall seems to have broken them. He has no memory of ever seeing these two before, even though the woman’s lustrous green hair marks her as a Power, as those gifted with super-powers are known in his world. As the police expert on Powers, he knows them all, and neither of these two are triggering his memory.
The fourth thing that occurs to him is that everyone, including Deena, is looking at him like they expect him to do something.
He gets up, (accidentally treading on the man’s head – he swears in what sounds like French before relapsing into stunned unconsciousness) and joins his partner at the podium.
“Where are we, Deena?” he asks out of the side of a mouth fixed in a very unconvincing grin.
“No idea, big fella,” she replies, likewise smiling at the audience. “But it looks like some kind of awards ceremony. What do we do?”
“Run?” Even as he says it, Walker realises that option’s out as both wings are covered by stressed-looking people in formal wear. On the left a young man with a ponytail is gesturing at them, mouthing something; on the right, another man, this time with a beard and short hair but still very like the first, is throwing his hands up in something that looks like despair. It takes both cops a minute to realise what they want.
“You want us to present the award? For…” He squints at the statuette and reads the small plaque on its base. “’Best Independent Fanfic’? Are you nuts? And what is a fanfic anyway?” Incredulity colours Walker’s voice as it booms out across the auditorium. But before he can do anything, like leap off the stage and into the crowd, heading for the nearest exit, Deena’s voice shocks him into immobility:
“Readers of comic fanfiction are usually better acquainted with the products of the big, mainstream companies Marvel and DC. However, there are those writers who take the proverbial road less travelled, finding inspiration in the work of the small, lessor-known independent comics. This award is to honour those writers.” Deena’s snatched up the cue cards and is gleefully reading them, loving every minute. Walker’s trapped – he groans to himself and takes the cards she’s thrusting at him.
“Writers of independent fanfic cannot rely, as their mainstream-writing fellows do, on their audience knowing, or even caring, about the characters they write about. For a story to be even read, let alone nominated for a CBFFA, it really has to pack a punch. This year’s nominees are no exception.” He rolls his eyes at the hyperbole as Deena takes over again.
“And the nominees for the 2003 CBFFA for Best Independent Fanfiction are…” Walker never knew Deena was such a ham; she sounds like it’s the MTV Awards or something.
“’Lucy’s Drowning’, by Amanda Sichter. Source, ‘Lazarus Churchyard’.”
As the final words leave Walker’s mouth (making absolutely no sense, but that’s nothing new tonight), a clip starts playing on the large screen that’s quietly descended from the ceiling to occupy the rest of the stage. As the images flicker to life, two stage hands move quietly in and drag the unconscious hosts off-stage to finish their enforced naps.
***
You can hear her there, on the radio, if you go looking. In the empty bandwidths, in the dark night, in between the static and the white noise, you can find her. She moves across the frequencies, seeking salvation, and if you search long enough you'll eventually hear her slow plea.
'Lucy's drowning.'
It's all she ever says, all she can ever say. I found her in the early hours ten years ago and, every night since, I've fallen asleep to the sound of Lucy drowning. According to those in the know she was there ten years before I found her. She's haunted the airwaves for twenty years and no-one's ever been able to find her.
I hope they never do.
They call me a frostygirl. A new name for a new profession. After the plagues came and the ruinstorms and the world moved underground and Isis-Elek took over what was left of Britain, came the frostygirls. When they finally got the plasborging right and found out ways to make dead men walk again, it didn't take that long for the wrong people to work out that dead men also want to fuck.
I fuck dead men for a living.
***
“Man, talk about creepy,” Deena exclaims cheerfully, breaking the hush that’s fallen over the audience. “Makes me glad I just have to look at dead men for a living. Any way, the next nominee is ‘A Summer Of Wendy’, by Dark Mark, source, ‘Wendy the Good Witch.’ Only I think that’s ruined the big surprise ending, huh?”
***
It really is something to be able to wake up in the morning with a beautiful woman you love.
She wasn’t perfect. Everybody’s hair looks like hell before they have a chance to comb it. But there was something so nice about being that close to a sleeping Wendy, lying on her side as the sun prodded through the curtains and blinds, not wanting to move to disturb her rest, but just watching her. Yeah, she snored a little bit. But I didn’t care.
The sheets were white with green patterns and the aqua-colored couch was not the most comfortable bed I’d ever slept in, but it would do. In fact, it had done. I got up to do my morning rituals. She moaned gently but didn’t open her eyes or stir very much.
Yep, I’d been in love before. I’d certainly made love before. But I’d never met a girl who would make me unequivocally want to spend the rest of my life with her before.
Now, I’d found her.
***
“Aw, wasn’t that sweet? Don’t you think it was sweet, Walker?” Deena pokes her partner until he responds with a long-suffering sigh (he’s really getting good at those):
“If you say so. The next nomination is ‘Cigarettes’, by Gen X, source, ‘Darkminds’.”
***
Day by day passes and everything's still working the same. I sit, I ponder, I hunt, but I invariably wait. Then I drive, deduce, and find I'm at yet another dead end. I close the door and start heading for the yellow line. I take a deep breath before I step over the police tape.
I look down at the body. Male. Half dressed. Completely dead. Body contorted, huge hole where his belly button should be. Scratches and cuts around his chest. He's victim number sixty-two. Just another day not unlike the rest. Cameras are already whirling and clicking. The blood's already cooled.
From my breast pocket, draw out a small box, tap out a cigarette. A snap, a crackle, a spark, and the tip of the cigarette lights. The tiny glow of light in the cold city street. The tiny warmth, before the coldness of reality. I take a long drag and look at the newest victim, destined to become a file number. Exhale slowly and watch the smoke rising up into the city.
Until death, life is just a series of moments.
***
“That’s more like it.” Walker’s mutter is picked up perfectly by the mikes and there’s a few titters (and a snort from an older man in the audience). Deena elbows him.
“Not everything’s about police procedure and perps and gross forensic photos, man,” she complains. “You seriously need to get out more.”
“I go out.”
“Suuuure you do. Where?”
“Out. Read the next nomination already, Pilgrim.”
“’Out’. Font of information, you are. Any way, our next nomination is ‘Down In The Mouth’, by Liz Barr, source, ‘Archie Comics’.”
***
Archie felt only a twinge of guilt as he pulled away, leaving Veronica behind. You couldn't forget about dental hygiene...
He wondered what Betty was doing that night.
***
“Well, that was short and sweet,” Pilgrim says cheerfully. “Funny, too.”
Walker shrugs.
“Man, you are such a downer. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you crack a smile since I met you… Heeey, you wouldn’t have some deep, dark dental hygiene related secret, would you?”
Walker ignores the comment and reads from the next cue card. “And our next nomination is ‘these walls are paper thin’ by Liberty Ginger, source, ‘Dilbert’.”
***
"Hi Wally," he says, while stirring in the decaying white creaming powder, and receives no answer because this week Wally doesn't believe in hellos and goodbyes. "This is possibly the most vile substance on the planet," Dilbert decides, taking a small sip anyway, for appearances sake.
"Then why do you drink it?" It's said the same way Wally always talks. Slowly and precisely, like the words are walking over glass.
Dilbert doesn't know what to say because the truth is that he doesn't drink it and that's too hard to explain. He shrugs. Wally almost smirks at him, in that way that can never be drawn right so seems the only private part of their life that's left, and walks away. Dilbert's hand shakes on the cup as he lets it just close enough to his lips for the cup to clatter against his teeth, the steam dampening his face, thick and revolting.
He goes back to his office (read: cubicle) and works for a solid hour because he has to care, even if most of the time it won't matter.
***
“Still have it in for the work we do?” Walker asks Deena with a slight smirk. “I’m sure the Captain can find you a nice little office job somewhere…”
Deena pulls a face. “No way. Gimme weird serial crimes and car chases any day.” She holds up the last cue card. “And speaking of which, the final nomination for Best Independent Fanfic is ‘Trick’, by WG Sarah, source, ‘Powers’.”
The screen flickers once more:
***
An officer separated from the pack and jogged over. "Oh, hey! Detective Walker. Detective Pilgrim. This is so fucked up. C'mon, I'll take you over."
Walker nodded. "When are these things not? What have you got?"
Lewis grimaced." I think you should see this yourself. I've never seen anything like this."
"More fucked up then when Horvmann's was overrun with those monkey spider things?" Deena asked, trailing behind them.
"I didn't see that."
"It was a mess. That Zarp guy-"
"Zark."
"Whatever. He tried to 'help' and we ended up with eight legged monkey guts all over the fucking store. Zark guts, too. That shit doesn't come out of cashmere."
"He got blown up?"
Deena shook her head. "Nah, the monkeys gnawed off his head first. Then he detonated. Some kind of self-immolation."
"Fuck."
"Yeah. Like he couldn't do that before they chewed off his head? That was nasty."
"Well, this is still worse."
They rounded the corner. Two small bodies dressed in brightly colored Halloween costumes lay on the ground, their bags of candy spilled across the grass, a couple of empty candy wrappers fluttering nearby. Walker carefully flipped up the plastic mask on one of the children. The child's face was featureless, wiped clean like an egg, and mottled an ugly dark color.
"Shiiit." Deena's jaw dropped.
"Like I said, I've never seen anything like this."
***
The audience clap their hands over their ears as Deena’s squeal is amplified tenfold by the microphone:
“Heeeeey, cool! That’s us! Didya see, Walker? That was us?”
“I saw, Pilgrim.”
“Isn’t that just so cool! We’re nominees! Us! I was great, too. Wasn’t I great? Kinda sucks with the kids, ‘though.”
“You realise what this means, don’t you?”
“That we could win a CBFFA, whatever that is? Oh wow, you’re right, that’s just amazing! Wish I was wearing something nicer…”
“No, what this means is that we’re comic book characters. We’re not real. And people take us and write us.”
“Into pretty kick-arse stories, ‘though.”
“Even so, this doesn’t bother you? That your whole existence is called into question?”
Deena thinks about this and shrugs. “Nah, not really. I feel fictional at the best of times anyway, with this kooky job of ours. Besides, there’s more important stuff to think about.”
“Like what?”
“Like who the winner is. Open the envelope already!”
Walker rolls his eyes and picks up the heavy, gold-embossed envelope and breaks the seal. Although he will never admit it, he’s enjoying the drama of the moment and pauses dramatically before announcing:
“And the winner is…”
“There’s our guy! Stop, police!” Deena’s scream effectively cuts through Walker’s moment, and she leaps off the stage onto a person Walker had overlooked as part of the crew. She has the statuette in her hand, and she uses it to club the unfortunate fugitive before he can open another portal and escape. Stolen jewellery spills from his pockets as he collapses under the weight of the small-yet-enthusiastically-violent blonde. As Walker wades in to rescue the suspect, she can hear Deena reading him his rights in between blows.
“You have the right…” *CLANG* “…to remain silent. Anything you do say…” *CLANG* “…may be taken down…” *CLANG* “…and used against you…” *CLANG* “…in a court of law…”
“Enough, Pilgrim. You’re denting the award.” Walker pulls his erstwhile partner off the now-unconscious suspect and puts on the cuffs. Deena squeaks and cradles the award to her chest.
“Oh no, did I hurt you, baby? I’m so sorry, I got carried away. Forgive me?” she asks it. Walker snorts.
“Pilgrim, it’s not your award, you know.”
“It could be!”
“It’s not. Trust me on this.”
“But…” Walker offers her the envelope. She takes it, hesitating a moment before pulling out the card. “And the winner of the 2003 CBFFA for Best Independent Fanfic goes to… [insert winner here]. Aw, nuts.”
“Can’t win them all. Now, give the nice winner their award and let’s get out of here, shall we?”
“But…” Deena clasps the statuette to her chest again and looks at him piteously. “Can’t I keep it? As a souvenir?”
“No, Pilgrim.” She pouts.
“You never let me have any fun.”
Walker grins, the expression uncharacteristically malicious. “But just think of all the fun you can have writing this up for the Chief.” Deena shoots him an evil look and sets the award on the edge of the stage.
“You have a really nasty sense of humour, Walker.”
“And you said I was humourless. Make up your mind, Pilgrim.”
“Bah.”
And then the pair are neatly deposited back into their own universe, suspect in tow, by at least one CBFFA organiser who really wants the show to go on.
***
CBFFA: Best Independent Fanfic.
Winner:
Nominees: “Lucy’s Drowning”, Amanda Sichter.
“A Summer of Wendy”, by Darkmark
“Cigarettes”, by GenX
“Down in the Mouth”, by Liz Barr
“these walls are paper thin”, by Liberty Ginger
“Trick”, by WG Sarah.
All characters used belong to someone else and are used without permission. No profit, only homage.
And while I'm at it - does anyone have a copy of the winners for 2003? ;)
***
“Halt, police! Stop or we’ll shoot! Which, seeing as you have Powers and all, probably won’t do squat, but we’ll do it anyway! Hold it right there!”
It could have been a scene from any one of a dozen cop dramas. A man-made canyon landscape of towering buildings with darkened alleys snaking between them, the dirty streets an ever-beleaguered Force struggled to keep clean. The suspect, fleeing the scene, ducking down alleys and scrambling over chain-link fences in an attempt to evade the long arm of the law. The law in question, Detectives Christian Walker and Deena Pilgrim, in hot pursuit; Pilgrim slightly ahead due to the fact she was dressed for running after crooks, as opposed to Walker in his black suit and dress shoes. Apart from Pilgrim’s not-quite-regulation demand, the sequence could have been enacted in a dozen series across fandoms, from the hard streets of New York, to the housing estates of Sun Hill, London.
“Stop! Aw man, Walker, he’s making some kind of portal-thingie…”
“Well, don’t do anything stupid like follow him through it. You could end up… Dammit, Deena, I told you to… Wait!”
The big man – tall and broad to superhero specifications – looks at the rippling, distorted space into which his diminutive partner has thrown herself, and heaves a well-practised sigh of defeat. Not even the actually-quite-cute detective’s habit of wearing little belly shirts all day is worth the amount of hassle she generates. But, she is a good cop, despite the impetuosity, and she _is_ his partner. So he hurls himself after her. Of course, it’s just in the nick of time – the portal closes with a muffled “POP” as soon as he passes through it.
The first thing he notices after the usual teleportional dislocation is the light. Bright, hot… he squints up into the glare and realises it comes from an array of spotlights and they’re all firmly pointed at him. Or rather, him and Deena, who is standing behind some sort of podium, upon which rests several cue cards, an envelope, and a small gold statuette of a naked anatomically-blurry man.
The second thing Walker realises is that they’re on a stage, and the darkness beyond its edge is filled with people. Many, many people, looking at him with expectant bemusement.
The third thing is that he is lying sprawled across a couple of people, neither of whom is their perp. They’re wearing evening dress, and have quite effectively broken his fall. Unfortunately, his fall seems to have broken them. He has no memory of ever seeing these two before, even though the woman’s lustrous green hair marks her as a Power, as those gifted with super-powers are known in his world. As the police expert on Powers, he knows them all, and neither of these two are triggering his memory.
The fourth thing that occurs to him is that everyone, including Deena, is looking at him like they expect him to do something.
He gets up, (accidentally treading on the man’s head – he swears in what sounds like French before relapsing into stunned unconsciousness) and joins his partner at the podium.
“Where are we, Deena?” he asks out of the side of a mouth fixed in a very unconvincing grin.
“No idea, big fella,” she replies, likewise smiling at the audience. “But it looks like some kind of awards ceremony. What do we do?”
“Run?” Even as he says it, Walker realises that option’s out as both wings are covered by stressed-looking people in formal wear. On the left a young man with a ponytail is gesturing at them, mouthing something; on the right, another man, this time with a beard and short hair but still very like the first, is throwing his hands up in something that looks like despair. It takes both cops a minute to realise what they want.
“You want us to present the award? For…” He squints at the statuette and reads the small plaque on its base. “’Best Independent Fanfic’? Are you nuts? And what is a fanfic anyway?” Incredulity colours Walker’s voice as it booms out across the auditorium. But before he can do anything, like leap off the stage and into the crowd, heading for the nearest exit, Deena’s voice shocks him into immobility:
“Readers of comic fanfiction are usually better acquainted with the products of the big, mainstream companies Marvel and DC. However, there are those writers who take the proverbial road less travelled, finding inspiration in the work of the small, lessor-known independent comics. This award is to honour those writers.” Deena’s snatched up the cue cards and is gleefully reading them, loving every minute. Walker’s trapped – he groans to himself and takes the cards she’s thrusting at him.
“Writers of independent fanfic cannot rely, as their mainstream-writing fellows do, on their audience knowing, or even caring, about the characters they write about. For a story to be even read, let alone nominated for a CBFFA, it really has to pack a punch. This year’s nominees are no exception.” He rolls his eyes at the hyperbole as Deena takes over again.
“And the nominees for the 2003 CBFFA for Best Independent Fanfiction are…” Walker never knew Deena was such a ham; she sounds like it’s the MTV Awards or something.
“’Lucy’s Drowning’, by Amanda Sichter. Source, ‘Lazarus Churchyard’.”
As the final words leave Walker’s mouth (making absolutely no sense, but that’s nothing new tonight), a clip starts playing on the large screen that’s quietly descended from the ceiling to occupy the rest of the stage. As the images flicker to life, two stage hands move quietly in and drag the unconscious hosts off-stage to finish their enforced naps.
***
You can hear her there, on the radio, if you go looking. In the empty bandwidths, in the dark night, in between the static and the white noise, you can find her. She moves across the frequencies, seeking salvation, and if you search long enough you'll eventually hear her slow plea.
'Lucy's drowning.'
It's all she ever says, all she can ever say. I found her in the early hours ten years ago and, every night since, I've fallen asleep to the sound of Lucy drowning. According to those in the know she was there ten years before I found her. She's haunted the airwaves for twenty years and no-one's ever been able to find her.
I hope they never do.
They call me a frostygirl. A new name for a new profession. After the plagues came and the ruinstorms and the world moved underground and Isis-Elek took over what was left of Britain, came the frostygirls. When they finally got the plasborging right and found out ways to make dead men walk again, it didn't take that long for the wrong people to work out that dead men also want to fuck.
I fuck dead men for a living.
***
“Man, talk about creepy,” Deena exclaims cheerfully, breaking the hush that’s fallen over the audience. “Makes me glad I just have to look at dead men for a living. Any way, the next nominee is ‘A Summer Of Wendy’, by Dark Mark, source, ‘Wendy the Good Witch.’ Only I think that’s ruined the big surprise ending, huh?”
***
It really is something to be able to wake up in the morning with a beautiful woman you love.
She wasn’t perfect. Everybody’s hair looks like hell before they have a chance to comb it. But there was something so nice about being that close to a sleeping Wendy, lying on her side as the sun prodded through the curtains and blinds, not wanting to move to disturb her rest, but just watching her. Yeah, she snored a little bit. But I didn’t care.
The sheets were white with green patterns and the aqua-colored couch was not the most comfortable bed I’d ever slept in, but it would do. In fact, it had done. I got up to do my morning rituals. She moaned gently but didn’t open her eyes or stir very much.
Yep, I’d been in love before. I’d certainly made love before. But I’d never met a girl who would make me unequivocally want to spend the rest of my life with her before.
Now, I’d found her.
***
“Aw, wasn’t that sweet? Don’t you think it was sweet, Walker?” Deena pokes her partner until he responds with a long-suffering sigh (he’s really getting good at those):
“If you say so. The next nomination is ‘Cigarettes’, by Gen X, source, ‘Darkminds’.”
***
Day by day passes and everything's still working the same. I sit, I ponder, I hunt, but I invariably wait. Then I drive, deduce, and find I'm at yet another dead end. I close the door and start heading for the yellow line. I take a deep breath before I step over the police tape.
I look down at the body. Male. Half dressed. Completely dead. Body contorted, huge hole where his belly button should be. Scratches and cuts around his chest. He's victim number sixty-two. Just another day not unlike the rest. Cameras are already whirling and clicking. The blood's already cooled.
From my breast pocket, draw out a small box, tap out a cigarette. A snap, a crackle, a spark, and the tip of the cigarette lights. The tiny glow of light in the cold city street. The tiny warmth, before the coldness of reality. I take a long drag and look at the newest victim, destined to become a file number. Exhale slowly and watch the smoke rising up into the city.
Until death, life is just a series of moments.
***
“That’s more like it.” Walker’s mutter is picked up perfectly by the mikes and there’s a few titters (and a snort from an older man in the audience). Deena elbows him.
“Not everything’s about police procedure and perps and gross forensic photos, man,” she complains. “You seriously need to get out more.”
“I go out.”
“Suuuure you do. Where?”
“Out. Read the next nomination already, Pilgrim.”
“’Out’. Font of information, you are. Any way, our next nomination is ‘Down In The Mouth’, by Liz Barr, source, ‘Archie Comics’.”
***
Archie felt only a twinge of guilt as he pulled away, leaving Veronica behind. You couldn't forget about dental hygiene...
He wondered what Betty was doing that night.
***
“Well, that was short and sweet,” Pilgrim says cheerfully. “Funny, too.”
Walker shrugs.
“Man, you are such a downer. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you crack a smile since I met you… Heeey, you wouldn’t have some deep, dark dental hygiene related secret, would you?”
Walker ignores the comment and reads from the next cue card. “And our next nomination is ‘these walls are paper thin’ by Liberty Ginger, source, ‘Dilbert’.”
***
"Hi Wally," he says, while stirring in the decaying white creaming powder, and receives no answer because this week Wally doesn't believe in hellos and goodbyes. "This is possibly the most vile substance on the planet," Dilbert decides, taking a small sip anyway, for appearances sake.
"Then why do you drink it?" It's said the same way Wally always talks. Slowly and precisely, like the words are walking over glass.
Dilbert doesn't know what to say because the truth is that he doesn't drink it and that's too hard to explain. He shrugs. Wally almost smirks at him, in that way that can never be drawn right so seems the only private part of their life that's left, and walks away. Dilbert's hand shakes on the cup as he lets it just close enough to his lips for the cup to clatter against his teeth, the steam dampening his face, thick and revolting.
He goes back to his office (read: cubicle) and works for a solid hour because he has to care, even if most of the time it won't matter.
***
“Still have it in for the work we do?” Walker asks Deena with a slight smirk. “I’m sure the Captain can find you a nice little office job somewhere…”
Deena pulls a face. “No way. Gimme weird serial crimes and car chases any day.” She holds up the last cue card. “And speaking of which, the final nomination for Best Independent Fanfic is ‘Trick’, by WG Sarah, source, ‘Powers’.”
The screen flickers once more:
***
An officer separated from the pack and jogged over. "Oh, hey! Detective Walker. Detective Pilgrim. This is so fucked up. C'mon, I'll take you over."
Walker nodded. "When are these things not? What have you got?"
Lewis grimaced." I think you should see this yourself. I've never seen anything like this."
"More fucked up then when Horvmann's was overrun with those monkey spider things?" Deena asked, trailing behind them.
"I didn't see that."
"It was a mess. That Zarp guy-"
"Zark."
"Whatever. He tried to 'help' and we ended up with eight legged monkey guts all over the fucking store. Zark guts, too. That shit doesn't come out of cashmere."
"He got blown up?"
Deena shook her head. "Nah, the monkeys gnawed off his head first. Then he detonated. Some kind of self-immolation."
"Fuck."
"Yeah. Like he couldn't do that before they chewed off his head? That was nasty."
"Well, this is still worse."
They rounded the corner. Two small bodies dressed in brightly colored Halloween costumes lay on the ground, their bags of candy spilled across the grass, a couple of empty candy wrappers fluttering nearby. Walker carefully flipped up the plastic mask on one of the children. The child's face was featureless, wiped clean like an egg, and mottled an ugly dark color.
"Shiiit." Deena's jaw dropped.
"Like I said, I've never seen anything like this."
***
The audience clap their hands over their ears as Deena’s squeal is amplified tenfold by the microphone:
“Heeeeey, cool! That’s us! Didya see, Walker? That was us?”
“I saw, Pilgrim.”
“Isn’t that just so cool! We’re nominees! Us! I was great, too. Wasn’t I great? Kinda sucks with the kids, ‘though.”
“You realise what this means, don’t you?”
“That we could win a CBFFA, whatever that is? Oh wow, you’re right, that’s just amazing! Wish I was wearing something nicer…”
“No, what this means is that we’re comic book characters. We’re not real. And people take us and write us.”
“Into pretty kick-arse stories, ‘though.”
“Even so, this doesn’t bother you? That your whole existence is called into question?”
Deena thinks about this and shrugs. “Nah, not really. I feel fictional at the best of times anyway, with this kooky job of ours. Besides, there’s more important stuff to think about.”
“Like what?”
“Like who the winner is. Open the envelope already!”
Walker rolls his eyes and picks up the heavy, gold-embossed envelope and breaks the seal. Although he will never admit it, he’s enjoying the drama of the moment and pauses dramatically before announcing:
“And the winner is…”
“There’s our guy! Stop, police!” Deena’s scream effectively cuts through Walker’s moment, and she leaps off the stage onto a person Walker had overlooked as part of the crew. She has the statuette in her hand, and she uses it to club the unfortunate fugitive before he can open another portal and escape. Stolen jewellery spills from his pockets as he collapses under the weight of the small-yet-enthusiastically-violent blonde. As Walker wades in to rescue the suspect, she can hear Deena reading him his rights in between blows.
“You have the right…” *CLANG* “…to remain silent. Anything you do say…” *CLANG* “…may be taken down…” *CLANG* “…and used against you…” *CLANG* “…in a court of law…”
“Enough, Pilgrim. You’re denting the award.” Walker pulls his erstwhile partner off the now-unconscious suspect and puts on the cuffs. Deena squeaks and cradles the award to her chest.
“Oh no, did I hurt you, baby? I’m so sorry, I got carried away. Forgive me?” she asks it. Walker snorts.
“Pilgrim, it’s not your award, you know.”
“It could be!”
“It’s not. Trust me on this.”
“But…” Walker offers her the envelope. She takes it, hesitating a moment before pulling out the card. “And the winner of the 2003 CBFFA for Best Independent Fanfic goes to… [insert winner here]. Aw, nuts.”
“Can’t win them all. Now, give the nice winner their award and let’s get out of here, shall we?”
“But…” Deena clasps the statuette to her chest again and looks at him piteously. “Can’t I keep it? As a souvenir?”
“No, Pilgrim.” She pouts.
“You never let me have any fun.”
Walker grins, the expression uncharacteristically malicious. “But just think of all the fun you can have writing this up for the Chief.” Deena shoots him an evil look and sets the award on the edge of the stage.
“You have a really nasty sense of humour, Walker.”
“And you said I was humourless. Make up your mind, Pilgrim.”
“Bah.”
And then the pair are neatly deposited back into their own universe, suspect in tow, by at least one CBFFA organiser who really wants the show to go on.
***
CBFFA: Best Independent Fanfic.
Winner:
Nominees: “Lucy’s Drowning”, Amanda Sichter.
“A Summer of Wendy”, by Darkmark
“Cigarettes”, by GenX
“Down in the Mouth”, by Liz Barr
“these walls are paper thin”, by Liberty Ginger
“Trick”, by WG Sarah.
All characters used belong to someone else and are used without permission. No profit, only homage.
And while I'm at it - does anyone have a copy of the winners for 2003? ;)
