Subreality Cafe - Mary Sue's Wake 1/1
Mary Sue’s Wake.
By Rossi.
This is a story about my Mary-Sue. Yes, I’m finally coming out of the closet on this one.
Disclaimers and Credits: see end of story.
Rating: PG (for swearing)
“Tell me what we’re doing here again?” Allison Ferguson asked no-one in particular as she and two of her house-mates made their way to where a neon sign gleamed in the gloom.
“Because we were invited, you drongo,” Raphael Giannmario, better known as Fish, replied.
“Don’t call me a drongo, Tadpole-Boy.”
“Don’t call me Tadpole-Boy, Hothead.”
“Stop it, both of you,” James Danaher said wearily. “Look, we’re not being Written now, so you leave out all that bickering, all right?” His words were met with stubborn silence. “Fine, do what you like, see if I care.”
“It doesn’t matter any way,” Fish said smugly, “Here we are.”
“Gee, the Bouncer really is _big_, isn’t he?” gulped James as they straggled towards the door. The big man in question stood in the doorway of the Café (for that was where they were, of course) like the original immovable object.
“We’ve been invited,” Fish said, neatly forestalling the usual pronouncements about their fictiveness. “Here’s the invite, see?” He offered the Bouncer a piece of paper with a tasteful black border and nice calligraphy.
“So you are,” rumbled the Bouncer. “Fine. In you go.”
“What do you mean we aren’t proper fictives?” demanded Allison, launching into her prepared protest. Then the Bouncer’s actual reply sunk in. “Oh. Okay then. We will.”
Fish snickered as they went through the ornate wood and stained glass doors. “Good one, Hothead.”
“Don’t call me that, Tuna-Breath,” growled Allison under her breath, debating on whether setting Fish’s underwear on fire would be a social faux pax in Subreality.
“You two find the rest of ‘em, I’ll get the beer,” Fish offered, ignoring the glares he was getting from Allison. With his height, it was easy for him to push through the rowdy crowd of fictives, Muses and UWC’c (Unidentified Written Creatures) to the bar. Allison and James, on the other hand, had things a bit harder.
“Damn, I can’t see anything in this crowd,” Allison grumbled, generating a small flame in order to “encourage” a Sabretooth fictive in her way to step aside. “Where are we supposed to go?”
“The invite said something about a back room,” James offered. “And Karen and Fatimah said they’d wait nearby for us.” He paused to pull a wayward strand of circuitry out of the drink sitting in front of a blue-furred young woman. “Excuse me,” he apologised, as the girl’s companion, an equally furry older man, glared at him.
“C’mon,” Allison sighed, pulling on his arm. “Can’t you control that yet?”
“It’s the environment. There’s just too many new things for it to explore,” protested James. “Look, there they are!” He pointed out Fatimah hovering on delicate wings above the crowd in the corner of the room. “Looks like we’re the last to get here.”
“We would’ve got here sooner if we hadn’t taken Fish’s ‘short-cut’ past every pub in Subreality,” muttered Allison as they pushed their way through the crowd. Snatches of conversation drifted past:
“So I told him to stick his light-sabre where the sun don’t shine…”
“I can’t believe my Writer buried me under a building with Scott. Oath! What’s next? Death by umbopo?”
“Logan, at last we can be alone…”
“Hank… Oomph, heavy, thud…”
“It’s about time Samy got back to it- I’ve been on that operating table for almost a year! What does he need a job for anyway? He’s got us!”
Eventually they made it to where Karen and Fatimah were waiting, hampered by James’ bio-circuitry insisting on exploring every aspect of the new environment. After averting yet another altercation with outraged female fictives and over-protective Canuck boyfriends/husbands (this one involving Charlotte threatening to ‘de-bug’ him if he did it again: luckily Logan was too busy nursing their twins to do much more than give James the death-glare), Allison managed to hustle James into the sanctuary of the pre-booked back room.
“What kept you?” grinned Fish, already comfortably seated, beer in hand.
“James’ circuitry boldly going where no mutation has gone before,” grumbled Allison, grabbing for the jug of beer on front of Fish and a glass.
“You really need to lay off the Star Trek, mate,” Fish chuckled, deftly moving the jug out of Allison’s reach and pouring a beer for James.
“Hey!”
“Settle down, children,” said the stunning older red-headed woman at the end of the table. “Remember what we’re here for.” Jean Grey smiled and telekinetically lifted the beer jug out of Fish’s grasp and levitating it to Allison.
“Oh yeah,” Fish muttered, looking down at the battered wood of the table top. He wasn’t the only one subdued by Jean’s words - a pall was cast over the whole table.
“Way to create an atmosphere, Mom,” Rachael Logan-Grey said with a grin.
“Um, why _are_ we here, exactly? Asked one of the two Everetts at the table. This one didn’t have baby food all over him, so he had to be the Christmas fic Everett.
“For a wake, mate,” said the unnamed cyclist in the corner. She had had no trouble getting through the crowd: anyone who didn’t move out of her way had been stricken with chronic motion-sickness.
“Who’s dead?” asked one of the three Jubilees. This one _did_ have baby food in her hair, another victim of the Neon Nurse’s Challenge. “’Cept for most of the people on ‘Heroes’?”
Jono, wearing a hospital gown and exuding an air of almost terminal angst poked her in the ribs.
[That wasn’t exactly tactful, gel,] he muttered, his telepathic “voice” halting and unclear, like he was still getting used to it.
“Oops, sorry. No offence, dude,” Jubilee added to the blond girl with the blood all over the front of her clothes.
“None taken,” Cathy Wilson replied easily. It had taken her and her best friend Tony Matthews considerable wrangling to get her past the Bouncer, considering it wasn’t Dead Night.
“So who is the unfortunate victim this time?” asked a fuzzy Monet. Still being Written and not yet posted, she lacked the definition of the other fictives.
“It’s me. Welcome to my wake.” The voice belonged to a young girl who suddenly appeared in the chair at the head of the table. She was about sixteen, her hair cut short and wavering between dark brown to light brown to red. Her dark eyes glinted with amusement as she took in the surprised stares and shocked expressions.
“She’s killing _you_ off?” Karen asked in disbelief. The girl nodded.
“But Alex, you’ve been around _forever_,” protested another Jubilee, this one older than the others and wearing a graduation gown and mortar board.
“Yeah, you were around before me, and I’m the oldest,” chimed in the unnamed cyclist from “Road Rage”.
Alex shrugged. “I know, but She’s decided it’s time I went.”
[I don’t get it. Wot’s all the fuss about?] Jono asked, [It’s not like She hasn’t killed off characters before. Look at Cathy ‘ere. She was dead before the fic even started.]
“Well, you see…” Alex paused, trying to think of how to put it.
“It’s more than just dying, isn’t it?” Rachael asked, her blue-green eyes gleaming, “You’ve been… Trashed.” A gasp went around the table. Alex nodded.
“How could She get rid of her oldest creation like that?” asked Fatimah, her eyes wide. She didn’t need to voice the question in all their minds: ‘If Alex could go, what’s stopping Her from getting rid of me?’
With a shrug, Alex said, “It’s not like I’ve ever been posted or anything. It’s true She worked on me for years. Eight chapters, in all, twenty pages each. But when the crunch came, She realised I could never be.”
“Why not?” demanded Allison, “You’ve got as much right to creation as any of us.” Flames erupted from her fists, and those sitting near her edged away. Allison’s temper was well known amongst their circle. A small green hand grabbed her by the wrist, and the flames winked out.
“Not be angry!” Leech sniffled. He was wearing PJ’s and clutching a teddy bear. “No fighting!” His big white eyes filled with tears.
“I’m sorry Leech, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Allison said, pulling the small mutant boy into her lap. Leech was the pet of the group, his fear bringing out the protective sides in them all.
“I’m a Mary Sue,” Alex explained, taking a sip of her soft drink. “That’s why I’m so defined without ever having been Read. I’ve been around for much longer than you think, long before I joined Generation X.” Her form shifted, to reveal a dark-haired young woman in a leather dress, a quiver and bow slung across her back. “My name was Jenna, back when She was writing Fantasy epics in her Eddings stage,” she continued, her voice deepening slightly and taking on an unknown accent. Her shape shifted again, and this time her hair was longer, still brown, and she was dressed in a G-Force uniform. “And Leia, the sixth member of G-Force before that, when she was watching ‘Battle of the Planets’. I was glad to get out of that one: She ended up paralysing me.” Her shape shifted back to Alex. “There are stacks of others, that even She doesn’t remember.”
“So why did She Trash you now, after all this time?” Jean asked softly.
“Because of what I am. She couldn’t recognise my nature and continue Writing me. And She certainly couldn’t let anyone Read me: She’d have been laughed out of Subreality.”
“You seem very calm about all this,” James observed. “Aren’t you angry?” Alex smiled softly.
“In a way I am, but it’s not like I’m disappearing completely. There’s aspects of me in all of you.”
“Howzzat?” Jubilee from the Christmas fic asked.
“When our Writer created me, or Her particular incarnations of me, She put parts of Herself into my character. The same as She has done with you. In order to understand you as people, and to Write you as realistically as possible, She has to put Herself into your shoes,” Alex explained. She nodded at the unnamed cyclist. “She knows, because she’s almost an exact replica of our Writer.” The cyclist shrugged, brushing her hand through her short brown hair.
“It’s true. I was a sort of wish-fulfilment fantasy after one too many close calls on Her ride home from work.”
“But if you’re Trashed, what are you doing here?” asked Fish, “You’re pretty lively for a stiff.”
“Consider it my swan-song,” Alex laughed. “I made… a deal. Besides, I’ve always wanted to be at my own wake.”
“How long have you got?” asked Rachael. Alex looked up as the door opened.
“Oh, not much longer. My ride’s here.” She smiled at the newcomer, a woman dressed in black jeans and tank top, a silver ankh hanging from the chain around her neck. Her skin was beyond pale, and her black hair tousled. But her dark eyes shone with the light of stars.
“It’s time, Alex,” Death said regretfully, “Sorry to interrupt the party.”
“I’m ready,” Alex said, standing. “Bye, guys. It’s been fun having you all around.” Death took the fictive by the hand, and there was the sound of wings…
It was late, and the lamp cast a warm pool of light over the figure at the keyboard, busily typing.
There was a brief sensation, like soft wings brushing past her. Rossi suddenly stopped. She seemed to hear a faint voice whisper her name, a girl’s laugh on the edges of reality.
“What’ss wrong?” asked Frank, the lizard Muse watching her progress from his favourite position on top of the computer monitor.
Rossi shook herself. “I don’t know, felt like someone walking over my grave.” She turned back to the story in progress. “So, any ideas on where to go with Monet from here?”
Credits and Disclaimers:
The Subreality Café concept (and its Bouncer) are credited to the Scribe, Kielle.
Generation X, Sabretooth, Jean Grey, Logan and Hank McCoy are trade marked to Marvel, although their particular incarnations on the Café will be credited to others.
Siku, in the obligatory “blue furry girl” reference, belongs to Darqstar, from the X-S series, at Shifting Sands.
The fictive complaining about being buried under a building is Cable, from Alicia McKenzie’s fic, “Take Me Out To The Ballgame.” If enough people ask me, I’ll tell the umbopo joke.
The Logan/Hank couple (and the oomph, heavy thud line) belong to JB McD from her story “The Love of His Life”, and will probably be on her site “Due West of Nowhere”.
Samy Merchi’s complaining fictive is Illyana, from his recently-resurrected story “From Russia With Love”, also at Shifting Sands
Charlotte, her hubby Logan and the twins belong to Kerrie Gruver.
And finally, the following fictives are mine, although Frank claims some responsibility too. All of them can probably be found at Fanfiction.net:
James, Allison, Fish, Karen and Fatimah are from the “Collective Mutants” series.
Jean and her daughter Rachael are from “Things As They Are”.
The unnamed cyclist is from the Common People story “Road Rage”.
Cathy Wilson and Tony Matthews are from the Common People story “Heroes”.
The Christmas fic refers to “Scenes from a Mall”, Leech is from “Afraid of the Dark”, the older Jubilee in the graduation gown is from “Three Little Words”, and Jono in the hospital gown is from “Letters From The Inside”.
The Neon Nurse’s Challenge refers to the Robo-Baby challenge posted on OTL some time ago. Jubes and Ev are from my response, posted on OTL.
And the not-finished Monet is from "Monet's Romance".
By Rossi.
This is a story about my Mary-Sue. Yes, I’m finally coming out of the closet on this one.
Disclaimers and Credits: see end of story.
Rating: PG (for swearing)
“Tell me what we’re doing here again?” Allison Ferguson asked no-one in particular as she and two of her house-mates made their way to where a neon sign gleamed in the gloom.
“Because we were invited, you drongo,” Raphael Giannmario, better known as Fish, replied.
“Don’t call me a drongo, Tadpole-Boy.”
“Don’t call me Tadpole-Boy, Hothead.”
“Stop it, both of you,” James Danaher said wearily. “Look, we’re not being Written now, so you leave out all that bickering, all right?” His words were met with stubborn silence. “Fine, do what you like, see if I care.”
“It doesn’t matter any way,” Fish said smugly, “Here we are.”
“Gee, the Bouncer really is _big_, isn’t he?” gulped James as they straggled towards the door. The big man in question stood in the doorway of the Café (for that was where they were, of course) like the original immovable object.
“We’ve been invited,” Fish said, neatly forestalling the usual pronouncements about their fictiveness. “Here’s the invite, see?” He offered the Bouncer a piece of paper with a tasteful black border and nice calligraphy.
“So you are,” rumbled the Bouncer. “Fine. In you go.”
“What do you mean we aren’t proper fictives?” demanded Allison, launching into her prepared protest. Then the Bouncer’s actual reply sunk in. “Oh. Okay then. We will.”
Fish snickered as they went through the ornate wood and stained glass doors. “Good one, Hothead.”
“Don’t call me that, Tuna-Breath,” growled Allison under her breath, debating on whether setting Fish’s underwear on fire would be a social faux pax in Subreality.
“You two find the rest of ‘em, I’ll get the beer,” Fish offered, ignoring the glares he was getting from Allison. With his height, it was easy for him to push through the rowdy crowd of fictives, Muses and UWC’c (Unidentified Written Creatures) to the bar. Allison and James, on the other hand, had things a bit harder.
“Damn, I can’t see anything in this crowd,” Allison grumbled, generating a small flame in order to “encourage” a Sabretooth fictive in her way to step aside. “Where are we supposed to go?”
“The invite said something about a back room,” James offered. “And Karen and Fatimah said they’d wait nearby for us.” He paused to pull a wayward strand of circuitry out of the drink sitting in front of a blue-furred young woman. “Excuse me,” he apologised, as the girl’s companion, an equally furry older man, glared at him.
“C’mon,” Allison sighed, pulling on his arm. “Can’t you control that yet?”
“It’s the environment. There’s just too many new things for it to explore,” protested James. “Look, there they are!” He pointed out Fatimah hovering on delicate wings above the crowd in the corner of the room. “Looks like we’re the last to get here.”
“We would’ve got here sooner if we hadn’t taken Fish’s ‘short-cut’ past every pub in Subreality,” muttered Allison as they pushed their way through the crowd. Snatches of conversation drifted past:
“So I told him to stick his light-sabre where the sun don’t shine…”
“I can’t believe my Writer buried me under a building with Scott. Oath! What’s next? Death by umbopo?”
“Logan, at last we can be alone…”
“Hank… Oomph, heavy, thud…”
“It’s about time Samy got back to it- I’ve been on that operating table for almost a year! What does he need a job for anyway? He’s got us!”
Eventually they made it to where Karen and Fatimah were waiting, hampered by James’ bio-circuitry insisting on exploring every aspect of the new environment. After averting yet another altercation with outraged female fictives and over-protective Canuck boyfriends/husbands (this one involving Charlotte threatening to ‘de-bug’ him if he did it again: luckily Logan was too busy nursing their twins to do much more than give James the death-glare), Allison managed to hustle James into the sanctuary of the pre-booked back room.
“What kept you?” grinned Fish, already comfortably seated, beer in hand.
“James’ circuitry boldly going where no mutation has gone before,” grumbled Allison, grabbing for the jug of beer on front of Fish and a glass.
“You really need to lay off the Star Trek, mate,” Fish chuckled, deftly moving the jug out of Allison’s reach and pouring a beer for James.
“Hey!”
“Settle down, children,” said the stunning older red-headed woman at the end of the table. “Remember what we’re here for.” Jean Grey smiled and telekinetically lifted the beer jug out of Fish’s grasp and levitating it to Allison.
“Oh yeah,” Fish muttered, looking down at the battered wood of the table top. He wasn’t the only one subdued by Jean’s words - a pall was cast over the whole table.
“Way to create an atmosphere, Mom,” Rachael Logan-Grey said with a grin.
“Um, why _are_ we here, exactly? Asked one of the two Everetts at the table. This one didn’t have baby food all over him, so he had to be the Christmas fic Everett.
“For a wake, mate,” said the unnamed cyclist in the corner. She had had no trouble getting through the crowd: anyone who didn’t move out of her way had been stricken with chronic motion-sickness.
“Who’s dead?” asked one of the three Jubilees. This one _did_ have baby food in her hair, another victim of the Neon Nurse’s Challenge. “’Cept for most of the people on ‘Heroes’?”
Jono, wearing a hospital gown and exuding an air of almost terminal angst poked her in the ribs.
[That wasn’t exactly tactful, gel,] he muttered, his telepathic “voice” halting and unclear, like he was still getting used to it.
“Oops, sorry. No offence, dude,” Jubilee added to the blond girl with the blood all over the front of her clothes.
“None taken,” Cathy Wilson replied easily. It had taken her and her best friend Tony Matthews considerable wrangling to get her past the Bouncer, considering it wasn’t Dead Night.
“So who is the unfortunate victim this time?” asked a fuzzy Monet. Still being Written and not yet posted, she lacked the definition of the other fictives.
“It’s me. Welcome to my wake.” The voice belonged to a young girl who suddenly appeared in the chair at the head of the table. She was about sixteen, her hair cut short and wavering between dark brown to light brown to red. Her dark eyes glinted with amusement as she took in the surprised stares and shocked expressions.
“She’s killing _you_ off?” Karen asked in disbelief. The girl nodded.
“But Alex, you’ve been around _forever_,” protested another Jubilee, this one older than the others and wearing a graduation gown and mortar board.
“Yeah, you were around before me, and I’m the oldest,” chimed in the unnamed cyclist from “Road Rage”.
Alex shrugged. “I know, but She’s decided it’s time I went.”
[I don’t get it. Wot’s all the fuss about?] Jono asked, [It’s not like She hasn’t killed off characters before. Look at Cathy ‘ere. She was dead before the fic even started.]
“Well, you see…” Alex paused, trying to think of how to put it.
“It’s more than just dying, isn’t it?” Rachael asked, her blue-green eyes gleaming, “You’ve been… Trashed.” A gasp went around the table. Alex nodded.
“How could She get rid of her oldest creation like that?” asked Fatimah, her eyes wide. She didn’t need to voice the question in all their minds: ‘If Alex could go, what’s stopping Her from getting rid of me?’
With a shrug, Alex said, “It’s not like I’ve ever been posted or anything. It’s true She worked on me for years. Eight chapters, in all, twenty pages each. But when the crunch came, She realised I could never be.”
“Why not?” demanded Allison, “You’ve got as much right to creation as any of us.” Flames erupted from her fists, and those sitting near her edged away. Allison’s temper was well known amongst their circle. A small green hand grabbed her by the wrist, and the flames winked out.
“Not be angry!” Leech sniffled. He was wearing PJ’s and clutching a teddy bear. “No fighting!” His big white eyes filled with tears.
“I’m sorry Leech, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Allison said, pulling the small mutant boy into her lap. Leech was the pet of the group, his fear bringing out the protective sides in them all.
“I’m a Mary Sue,” Alex explained, taking a sip of her soft drink. “That’s why I’m so defined without ever having been Read. I’ve been around for much longer than you think, long before I joined Generation X.” Her form shifted, to reveal a dark-haired young woman in a leather dress, a quiver and bow slung across her back. “My name was Jenna, back when She was writing Fantasy epics in her Eddings stage,” she continued, her voice deepening slightly and taking on an unknown accent. Her shape shifted again, and this time her hair was longer, still brown, and she was dressed in a G-Force uniform. “And Leia, the sixth member of G-Force before that, when she was watching ‘Battle of the Planets’. I was glad to get out of that one: She ended up paralysing me.” Her shape shifted back to Alex. “There are stacks of others, that even She doesn’t remember.”
“So why did She Trash you now, after all this time?” Jean asked softly.
“Because of what I am. She couldn’t recognise my nature and continue Writing me. And She certainly couldn’t let anyone Read me: She’d have been laughed out of Subreality.”
“You seem very calm about all this,” James observed. “Aren’t you angry?” Alex smiled softly.
“In a way I am, but it’s not like I’m disappearing completely. There’s aspects of me in all of you.”
“Howzzat?” Jubilee from the Christmas fic asked.
“When our Writer created me, or Her particular incarnations of me, She put parts of Herself into my character. The same as She has done with you. In order to understand you as people, and to Write you as realistically as possible, She has to put Herself into your shoes,” Alex explained. She nodded at the unnamed cyclist. “She knows, because she’s almost an exact replica of our Writer.” The cyclist shrugged, brushing her hand through her short brown hair.
“It’s true. I was a sort of wish-fulfilment fantasy after one too many close calls on Her ride home from work.”
“But if you’re Trashed, what are you doing here?” asked Fish, “You’re pretty lively for a stiff.”
“Consider it my swan-song,” Alex laughed. “I made… a deal. Besides, I’ve always wanted to be at my own wake.”
“How long have you got?” asked Rachael. Alex looked up as the door opened.
“Oh, not much longer. My ride’s here.” She smiled at the newcomer, a woman dressed in black jeans and tank top, a silver ankh hanging from the chain around her neck. Her skin was beyond pale, and her black hair tousled. But her dark eyes shone with the light of stars.
“It’s time, Alex,” Death said regretfully, “Sorry to interrupt the party.”
“I’m ready,” Alex said, standing. “Bye, guys. It’s been fun having you all around.” Death took the fictive by the hand, and there was the sound of wings…
It was late, and the lamp cast a warm pool of light over the figure at the keyboard, busily typing.
There was a brief sensation, like soft wings brushing past her. Rossi suddenly stopped. She seemed to hear a faint voice whisper her name, a girl’s laugh on the edges of reality.
“What’ss wrong?” asked Frank, the lizard Muse watching her progress from his favourite position on top of the computer monitor.
Rossi shook herself. “I don’t know, felt like someone walking over my grave.” She turned back to the story in progress. “So, any ideas on where to go with Monet from here?”
Credits and Disclaimers:
The Subreality Café concept (and its Bouncer) are credited to the Scribe, Kielle.
Generation X, Sabretooth, Jean Grey, Logan and Hank McCoy are trade marked to Marvel, although their particular incarnations on the Café will be credited to others.
Siku, in the obligatory “blue furry girl” reference, belongs to Darqstar, from the X-S series, at Shifting Sands.
The fictive complaining about being buried under a building is Cable, from Alicia McKenzie’s fic, “Take Me Out To The Ballgame.” If enough people ask me, I’ll tell the umbopo joke.
The Logan/Hank couple (and the oomph, heavy thud line) belong to JB McD from her story “The Love of His Life”, and will probably be on her site “Due West of Nowhere”.
Samy Merchi’s complaining fictive is Illyana, from his recently-resurrected story “From Russia With Love”, also at Shifting Sands
Charlotte, her hubby Logan and the twins belong to Kerrie Gruver.
And finally, the following fictives are mine, although Frank claims some responsibility too. All of them can probably be found at Fanfiction.net:
James, Allison, Fish, Karen and Fatimah are from the “Collective Mutants” series.
Jean and her daughter Rachael are from “Things As They Are”.
The unnamed cyclist is from the Common People story “Road Rage”.
Cathy Wilson and Tony Matthews are from the Common People story “Heroes”.
The Christmas fic refers to “Scenes from a Mall”, Leech is from “Afraid of the Dark”, the older Jubilee in the graduation gown is from “Three Little Words”, and Jono in the hospital gown is from “Letters From The Inside”.
The Neon Nurse’s Challenge refers to the Robo-Baby challenge posted on OTL some time ago. Jubes and Ev are from my response, posted on OTL.
And the not-finished Monet is from "Monet's Romance".