A typical night in Subreality. There were pools of midnight blackness, areas of blistering rain, soft autumn dusks, and grey winter skies. Every different element of evenings unwritten existed simultaneously in the night. There was a soft crackle, and a smell of ozone, and an even blacker rectangle appeared in the darkness. A slight gleam ran along the razor-perfect edges of its 9:3:1 dimensions.

It appeared in secret and with unknown reasons. It had no apparent use. It had no apparent meaning. It had no apparent reason to be there. And if the right people had seen it, they would have instantly known something was going to go very very wrong...

Unfortunately, it was found by them instead.

"No, councilor, I have no idea why it's here," a drunk voice slurred.

"I have no idea why we're here either, Abshyss..." another even drunker voice said.

"English here thought that he knew the way to Brendan Finn's cave," another drunk and amused female voice said. There was a liquid sound and the clink of ice-cubes.

"I'll find it, mates. 'Ang on a sec..." the drunk and rough accent muttered. There was a steadier liquid sound, and a few amused snorts.

"Should he be taking a leak on the mysterious object of unknown power?"

"Seems like the right thing to do. So, back to the trail?"

"All right, but I'm going to need a refill first, y'all." The four figures staggered away from the device, the last of them tossing an empty rum bottle over her shoulder as she went.

If they had watched the bottle, they might have realized that its transformation into a small model of a spaceship meant something.

"I do not like this, Lord Uatu."

"Peace, Alan Scott. Or would you prefer 'his Majesty'?"

The Green Lantern snorted. "I prefer Governor. Or Chief Justice, Lord Uatu."

"You are mistaken, Governor. My kind does not rule. We only watch. We have watched you neverending quest for justice; not just you but all your order."

"Who watches the watchers?"

"Indeed. But ours is a--"

"Guys, guys, guys! Why so serious?" A loud voice boomed out and Uatu rolled his eyes.

"Oh good. He's back," he said flatly as the man came into view. He was tall, with curly dark hair and an easy smile. His open-throated white jumpsuit was accented by a vermillion scarf around his throat, and a pair of Ray-Bans hid his eyes.

"This is the man who brought us?" the Green Lantern said in disbelief, and Uatu quieted him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Patience, Alan Scott. He is more then he seems."

"That's right! Like Transformers. I'm more then meets the eye. Name's Beyonder. Call me Rick." He held out a hand.

"Rick Beyonder?" Alan said, and Uatu again whispered to the green sentinel.

"He found Hollywood. He's also more powerful then virtually any force in the universe. I'd council agreement with him."

"Very well...Rick. Why have you brought me from my post to this place." the Green Lantern said, with obvious distaste.

"Well, Al -- can I call you Al? Wait, if you want, you can call me Betty. Al, Betty. You get it? You get it. Likin' it, I know you are... This is where dreams are made. This is the creative centre of our universe, although you and they don't realize it yet." The Beyonder grinned hugely. "But they are going to. Oh man, yes they are. Babe, think about it! Lights, stars, awards! A big statue made of rhinestones!"

"What are you talking about?" the Green Lantern said flatly, as the Watcher covered his eyes.

"Awards, baby! Flash and bang and beautiful women with heaving cleavage sobbing into microphones! I'm talking two billion viewers and all the new big commercials! I'm a genius!" The Beyonder threw himself into a chair and draped his legs idly over the arm. "See, I was doing a little reconstructing last year and I noticed this place."

"Yes, Subreality. We know of it well in the League, and we avoid it for very good reason. All of us, including you Rick," Alan's voice dripped contempt, "are in their thrall while we are here."

"Ah, not so, Al baby. See, I figured that they might have a problem and well, let's be honest, they can't get an awards show organized in the same time a Mars mission preps, so I decided to help them. To help them, I have to make sure they don't get in the way." Rick Beyonder smiled.

"Lord Beyo-- Rick." Uatu changed quickly at the Beyonder's glare. "I cannot find how you plan this. I can see all, but there is a hole in my sight concerning it."

"It was to be a surprise, Uatu! Come on, I know you've never had a surprise, so I wanted to give you one. It's like Christmas, isn't it?" Rick Beyonder grinned and snapped his fingers. A tall monolith of seamless black metal appeared behind him, and his guests took a step back. "Beautiful, isn't it? Cosmic Swiss army knife, classic lines, and most importantly, totally ingrained into the creative consciousness of the writers. Which means it can work on them."

"You mean--"

"Got 'em spread all over the place. And a touch of this button and--"

"Wait. Why are we here?"

"I need hosts, bubala! Guys in charge! How better them the one who sees everything, and the one who can create everything! I, of course, will produce." He grinned hugely.

"Hosts? But I--"

"You'll do fine! And now," Rick Beyonder pushed the button, "--for the writers."

"Wow, and I thought he just really hated us," a familiar voice said at her elbow, and she found herself eye to eye with a gold coloured robot.

"Crow?"

"She can be taught. Hey Joel, we got visitors!"

"I know, Crow," the morose-voiced host said, looking around him. She could hear the angry voices of her fellow writers around her.

"Not a single writer's power. Someone is getting a flaming sword up the jacksie for this!"
"If who ever is pawing my shoulder doesn't stop now, there will be violence!"
"Hey, I still have the scotch bottle!" Ragged drunken cheers followed that one.
"All right!" Kielle shouted. "What is going on here?"

"Well," Joel said flatly and pointed to the screen. "We have movie sign."

Kielle sat down, stunned, as the screen flickered to life and the credits scrolled up.

The credit scrolled by in a ruin of exclamation points and the occasional bewildered voice in the crowd saying "Rick Beyonder?" It opened to a stage set with a pair of giant rhinestone awards.

"Um, greetings. I am the Watcher. My kind has been observing the world of comic from the time of your great failure, and we do so until the end of time."

"Juice it up, Uatu!" yelled Beyonder from offstage.

"Yes, yes. We have brought you here today to give you the best in comic-book fanfiction, as voted by you, the readers. I have seen all, and now we shall show you that knowledge." Uatu sighed. "However, first let me introduce my co-host. A man who needs no introduction, save for those who have never heard of him before perhaps. Alan Scott, the Green Lantern."

The Green Lantern walked in, resplendent in a shimmering emerald suit. He smiled to the camera and squinted at the Teleprompter. "Hello, Uatu. Say..." he said in a hesitant voice, obviously reading. "If you're the Watcher does that mean you see everything everywhere?"

"That's right... Al."

"So, I bet the real reason you watch is...so you can see Psylocke in the shower."

"HAY-OHH!" Uatu called and stopped. "Beyonder, what is the meaning of--" He started but was drowned out by the canned laughter. Alan Scott sighed and went on.

"But enough about that. We are here today at the hands of the Beyonder with his special gift to the writers of fanfiction, in the form of the first awards show set across space, time, and culture! That's right, we have our presenters coming to you from strange worlds--"

"Past stories--"

"Other genres--"

"And within fanfiction itself to kick off the CBFFA's 2001: A FANFICTION ODDITY!"

"HAY-OHH!" The Watcher looked embarrassed as he hooted again. Reddening, he turned back to the Beyonder. "Look, do I have to keep doing--"

"We're going to hit the best in fanfiction of the last year, and award the writers that make it all worth while. So, Uatu, should we get to those awards?"

"I think so." The Green Lantern made a golf-swing motion as the Watcher motioned to the screen. "First off is the Best Original Character, but stay tuned because we have a long night and a lot of awards to hand out!"

A stunned and amazed silence settled on the writers as powerless they watched their awards roll on in front of them.

Let's go back to the beginning. One of them, any way.

Two girls sat at a table in the Subreality Cafe, which for some reason tonight resembled a spaceport bar from an anime film; "Space Cobra," perhaps, or maybe "Battle Angel Alita." The staff too, in response to the fluid nature of their workplace, were dressed accordingly; lots of leather and metallic material and PVC, with meaningless straps and buckles and, in the case of the females (thankfully), large amounts of cleavage. Except the Bouncer, that was. He stood at his post, implacable as always in his favorite black T-shirt and jeans. Lying in the gutter by his feet was a crumpled heap of silvery material -- someone's idea of a spacesuit. He'd been seen "discussing" the costume change with the Someone in question until the debate was cut short by the appearance of a large black monolith which had abruptly sucked the protesting Writer into it. The Bouncer had been heard to approve of the new security arrangements, whoever was responsible.

"Not quite what I remember," said the shorter and younger of the two girls, looking around the Cafe with a slight expression of disapproval. "What happened to the 'Olde Englishe Pub' look?"

"It didn't fit the plot, I suppose," her companion replied, pushing a lock of royal blue hair behind a blue furred, pointed ear. "Still, it's nice to see the old place again."

"You sound like some doddery old person, Siku." Blue-and-white hair shimmered in the dim light as the other girl shook her head with a laugh. "Want me to get you your walker, Grandma?"

"But that's what we are, Dawn, at least in relative terms. How long has it been since a Blue Girl appeared in the Cafe?" Sikudhani McCoy said with a gentle smile.

"About as long as it's been between Dead Dawn jokes." Dawn Embers pulled a face. "Not that I miss those. So, tell me, after all this time, what are we doing back here?"

"I'm not sure. To prove a point, I suppose."

"Bloody Writers. It's always some game or other with them. They're worse than Sinister. At least he's clear about what he wants; genetic samples to breed a better mutant," Dawn grumbled, scowling down at her drink. "I guess they're right."

"You're starting to swear like Glenn, you know." Siku grinned. "Who's right about what?"

"Whoever it was that said you can't go home again. Look at this place, Siku. It's changed, and I don't mean the techie grunge look. It's the people, too."

"What do you mean? It looks pretty much the same to me. The all-Gambit poker game is defying all laws of physics, it's gotten so big, and there's a lot of fictives I don't recognize straight away -- looks like there's a lot more than Marvel mutants out there now -- but it's essentially the same as it's always been. A place for fictives to go and relax away from their Writers."

"Only the Writers don't stay away like they used to. From what the Bouncer says, every second night is a Thursday." Dawn shrugged. "But that's another rant for another time. I don't know...back in our day, the place had more creativity, y'know? Original characters, not just endless Cables and Gambits and Jubilees. You could swing a Kitty Pryde in here tonight and not hit an original fictive. And the ones that do exist, they're barely worth the effort..."

With a sigh, Dawn paused. "I don't believe it, now I sound like some old fogey. Any minute now I'm going to say something like, 'When I was young...' and when I do, you're going to have to kill me."

"What, again?" Siku ducked the swipe Dawn aimed at her. "I suppose it's normal, feeling like that. Times change, people change, places change. You and I...we've been around here pretty much from the beginning. What comes after is bound to not seem as good. But I do think you're being rather harsh. There's lots of original characters out there, good ones."

"Yeah, right." There was a mischievous twinkle in Dawn's blue eyes as she looked at Siku. "Do you think you can prove me wrong?"

"I know I can." Hank McCoy's adopted daughter could never resist a challenge. "There's at least five in here right now. See that little blond kid over there?"

"The one tying Bishop's shoelaces together?"

"That's the one. That's Annie, from Dyce's 'Slavery, Deliverance And Faith' and 'The Godless Among Them.' Genetically engineered daughter of Sabretooth and Mystique."

"Not exactly original, then." Dawn tilted her head, eyeing the young girl. "She's cute, with that charming homicidal streak, but I'm not convinced."

"Then take a better 'look.' You're the telepath, remember?"

"Oh yeah, silly me, fancy forgetting that, it's only been a major plot device for the entire Dawn Arc," said Dawn sarcastically. She focused her attention again on the girl, who had stealthily crept on to the next pair of shoelaces, these belonging to a particularly grim-looking Cyclops. It was fairly simple to reach into the girl's mind and pick out a piece of her life.

[Sabretooth] followed the scent, and promptly had to bite his tongue to keep a sentimental noise from escaping. He'd NEVER made one of those noises, and he wasn't going to start now. Even if the sight of his small, blonde cub draped along a branch like a baby big cat, her eyes closed and body relaxed in sleep, was about the cutest thing he'd ever seen. He'd never been the slightest bit moved by kittens in baskets; small fuzzy critters were food, not things to "awww" at, and he didn't like babies. But this...this was cute. He smiled a bit. Look at her, she thought she was a feline. Just like him. Hitherto unknown instincts were kicking in at high speed as he shrugged and swarmed up the massive tree. If a branch two stories up would hold her, he should be fine. He paused a few feet below her and stretched up a long arm to tap her dangling foot. "Hey." The foot promptly kicked him in the hand, and vanished upwards. After a moment, her head appeared in its place as she dangled from a higher branch by her hands and knees, wearing a disgruntled expression. "Don't you know better than to sneak up on someone who's sleeping?" she asked crossly. "I could've taken your hand off, and then where'd you be?" He shrugged, squatting easily on his own branch. "'S why I went for yer foot instead o' yer hand. You got shoes on." She thought it over, and nodded, agreeing with the wisdom of touching a limb that was a) less flexible and b) had the claws covered up. "Fair 'nuff." She swung down from the smaller branch and perched on the original one, gazing down at him with interest. "Did you come here to see me?" He nodded, returning the gaze with equal interest. She had slightly pointed ears, he noticed, and the faint starlight glittered in her deep yellow eyes. "Was curious," he admitted. He wouldn't have admitted it to anyone else, but you could tell just by looking that the kid was as curious herself as a kitten meeting its first dog. Any second now she was gonna reach out her paw and bat him on the nose. He might even not bite her fingers.

"So?" Siku asked as Dawn came back to (Sub)reality.

"Pretty impressive. But I'm still not convinced. One good original character doesn't prove your point."

"Fine, fine. How about Naomi Chandler?" Siku indicated a girl with unruly dark hair sitting with a Hank McCoy and a Henry Pym. Judging from the enthusiastic gestures and furious scribbling of formulae on napkins (the Cafe's napkins were extra-thick, so often were they needed for Writing emergencies), they were deeply involved in solving the mysteries of modern science. Or working out the bill.

"Doesn't look like much. Who is she?"

"Mel's self-insertion character, from 'Desperate Times, Ramen Noodles,' among others. And looks can be deceiving."

"Could the next applicant please come in?" I jumped a bit, and stood nervously. Brushing off my one business-like skirt and blouse I smiled nervously at the waiting room, and headed for the fatal door. One hand on the door knob I stopped, suddenly annoyed at myself. I hate it when I get all nervous about other people. I forced myself to stop being anxious. The worst thing that could happen if I didn't get this job was I would have to take a job somewhere other than a lab. Surely there were jobs I could get with an Australian accent. I could save up, and go to England for a while. Apparently they were under the misapprehension that Australians are hardworking there. I straightened my shoulders, and headed in.

Dawn chuckled. "Gotta love that Aussie sense of humour," she said. Then, defensively, she added. "But that's only two. You said lots."

"It's a good thing we don't have a bet going, because you'd be losing," Siku teased. "Okay, how about the woman over there?"

"The waitress?"

"Yep. That's Annie Peckenpaugh, from Mice's 'Everyone Says I Love You' series. 'The Wyoming Pie' was the first story."

"Perfect memory is kind of subtle. You don't even notice it happening at first...I mean, I didn't turn into a brain or anything in high school, I slept through most of my classes and never opened the book. It just started real small...remembering where I put my book bag that I could never seem to find before ...returning library books on time, that kind of minute stuff. Then I realized I could time things in my head, like my brain had a clock in it, and then I began remembering things from my childhood, things that most kids forget like saying their first word, what they were wearing when they took their first step, and the colors of the big helium balloon that took up space in the delivery room when I was born. "So I asked for a blood test to prove to myself that I wasn't crazy. And I'm not." Annie smiled. "Do you know that you two are the first real mutants I've ever met? And the only people I've told about what exactly my power is? I mean, I know it's not an out-there power, like manipulating the weather or reading other people's minds, but it's enough to keep me scared." Hank turned off his image inducer to reveal his blue, furry form. "You needn't feel like that, Annie. Your power is a gift, and you should--" "Hank, you're sounding like an after-school special." "I think I know what I am doing, Robert, I have given this talk before." "And I've been meaning to tell you, Henry, that it kinda sucks. I feel like we should have Keri Strug come out here with her gold medal and say, 'That's right, being different is A-OK! In fact, it's pretty super! Go USA!' and have her hobble off." Hank glowered at Bobby. "Really, Hank, the speech is lame." Hank turned to Annie, who nodded. "It does have a certain 'Mr. Rogers' feel to it, Dr. McCoy."

Siku smiled as Dawn's eyes re-focused on her. "Convinced yet?"

"Don't push your luck." Dawn glanced over to a particularly shadowy corner, where a two fictives were sitting, quietly observing the room. They were both similar, with a certain edginess to their movements. One was Jason Todd, in his Draco reincarnation. The other was a dark-haired woman. "I think I've got one for you. Gina Beldacci-Brown."

"From Mel's Corner stories?"

"Yes. I was thinking of 'A Good Meal.'"

It was ten o'clock and there was a familiar rumble outside, and with a twisted grin Jason Todd turned around, already knowing what he was going to see. A shiny, well-kept taxi drew to a shuddering halt outside his auto-shop, and the driver's door opened. Out stepped a skinny woman in jeans and a tee. She wore a cap with whatever motto had been emblazoned on it long faded, and a shaggy fringe over half of her face. Looking up, she shrugged at the resigned look on his face. "George is playing up again," she said. Jason gave her a stern look, only made sterner by the patch. "George?" "It's George today. Yesterday it was Harriette. Today, he's a bastard." She shrugged. Jason nodded. It made perfect sense. Whenever Gina's taxi didn't work, it was a guy. "So, you want me to work my magic again?" Gina pulled off her cap and ran her hand tiredly through her hair. "I think we've gone beyond magic, Jays. I'm afraid that we're gonna have to call in the big guns. Time for a saint or two. I'll get Mama to run through a few quick rosaries, you think?" She tossed him the keys, her brown eyes smiling. When she joked you almost didn't notice the scar running down from the corner of one eye to her chin over her lips, or the crooked part of her nose. Almost.

"You're making my arguments for me," Siku said, as the images faded.

"Let's just say I concede your point."

"A pity. I had one more for you. See that old lady over there?

"The one making everyone run around after her? She does look a bit out of place in here tonight."

"Plot point." Siku grinned. "That's Nan Bass, another one of Mice's. From 'God...Er Dog,' this time. Have a 'peek.'"

"I am so going to need an aspirin after tonight," Dawn complained, extending her mind towards the old lady sitting in the comfortable chair that had sprung up in direct defiance of the Cafe's current space grunge incarnation.

The greatest thing and the worst thing about old age is that you get to be a kid again. The good thing being that you get to experience again the freedom of not having much to do; just stay at home, eat, and watch T.V. And you get to do it all in your underwear. The worst being that you are old enough to do all the things you wanted to indulge yourself in when you were too young to do it, but everyone tells you that you're too old to do them now. Ever since I broke my hip, everyone has been treating me so different, even my Canasta Club, who've I've known since I came down here. The last game I played was two months ago; I stopped because they all started looking at me like Death was looking over my shoulder, and it was only a matter of time before it got to them, too. I want to scream at them that I just broke my hip; it's just a bone for crying out loud and hasn't Liz Taylor broke hers several times, and look at her! After my stroke, I understand the worry, but it was a hip. Morons, every last one of them.

"Looks like there's hope yet," Dawn said, rubbing her temples slightly. She'd tasted too many minds, lived too many loves tonight. "Okay, I admit defeat. You were right. There are good original characters out there. But sometimes it feels like we're few and far between."

"You just have to know where to look." Siku smiled and patted Dawn's hand. "Let me get you some aspirin."

"Yes." Uatu tried hard to maintain the chirpy presenter banter, but wasn't succeeding. "Many thanks to Dawn Embers and Sikudhani McCoy for presenting them to us."

"And to their Writers, Tapestry and Darqstar, for the loan. I suppose it's time to open that envelope, then?"

"Certainly, Alan, although it is not strictly necessary as I already know the result. Being omniscient really spoils surprises."

"Tell me about it." Alan Scott ripped open the gaudy gold envelope. "And the winner of the award for Best Original Character is..."

"Annie, from 'The Godless Among Them' and 'Slavery, Deliverance And Faith,' written by Dyce." The Watcher cast a glance through space and time at the Satellite of Love, currently home to the unwilling Writer population of ficdom. "Congratulations, Dyce." He looked over at Alan. "Where to next?"

Beyonder threw opened the doors and stepped inside the large room, smiling obliviously into the sea of faces and a cacophony of sounds, "Hello, hello, my dear guests. How's everything? Enjoying yourself? Are we having fun?"

"My chair broke."
"Falstaff is sitting on me!"
"Why? You don't look anything like Dyce."
"Shuddap!"
"We are running low on beer."
"Abyss, dude -- there are four kegs still untapped."
"So... It is worse than I thought."
"o/~ We are the champions, we are...o/~ glurg..."
"Hey, I want whatever he was drinking!"

Giving the mob just a cursory glance Rick muttered absently, "Good. Good, good, good. I'm glad you are enjoying yourself. Please come again." Giving the Writers a cheery wave goodbye, Beyonder disappeared into a small side door.

"Yo, down in front!"

"Yeah, you are not transparent, man. I wanna see this part."

"What's next on the menu, anyhow?"

"Umm...umm...hell, I don't know. Are there any more hors d'ouvres?"

In the small room adjacent to the main viewing studio, Uatu started as Beyonder suddenly appeared behind him, humming contentedly. "So, what's up, babe?"

Wincing slightly at Rick's choice of words, the Watcher motioned to the nearest screen with the large white script -- "Best Original Genre."

On the other set of the com set the Green Lantern shivered as Rick chuckled delightedly, "This should be good."

Not hearing a reply she turned around to cast a glance at the solitary figure at the corner of the Cafe. The blue-furred girl remained oblivious, her attention seemingly fully occupied by three white envelopes on the table in front of her.

Shaking her head Mary exited the building, nodding to the Bouncer on her way out. When the usually impeccably-mannered man also failed to return her greeting, the greatest heroine fiction has ever known made a rude gesture at his back, "They get picked as presenters for CBFFAs and suddenly the rest of the world doesn't exist. Hmph!"

"Siku! Siiiku! Where are you, kid? We are on in five."

Major Mapleleaf, the justly famous bartender of the Subreality Cafe, grinned at the irritated motion by which the girl in the corner answered the Bouncer's call. "You doing all right, Siku?"

"Yeah...I wish I had more time though. And I wish..."

"There you are!" Hearing the Bouncer's triumphant cry, Sikudhani McCoy closed her eyes and tiredly rubbed her temple, "Yes. Here I am."

The Bouncer squinted at her suspiciously, "Are you sick or something?"

"No. Do you have the winner's clip?"

"Surely do." Waving the large white package in the air, the large square-shouldered man motioned to the perhaps most famous original character in comic book fanfiction. "C'mon. We are up."

"Oh, quit nagging me, man! The awards are just outside anyway. Why do we have to do it here anyhow? We do it here every year. This time finally the Writers get hauled off to a satellite of all things! And -- what do you know? I am still stuck here. Dammit!"

The Bouncer exchanged a worried look with the Major. That didn't sound at all like the friendly and generally good-natured Darqstar's fictive. Clearing his throat hesitantly, he approached the fuming girl. "Umm...Siku? What's wrong? I mean -- what better place to hold the award ceremony for the Best Original Genre than the Cafe? This IS the hub. The place where reality meets fantasy after all... Besides, I though you said it was an honor to be one of the presenters?"

"I did. It is... It's just that..." Siku waved her hand uncertainly. "Never mind. And by the way -- any idea who writes this segment? That was like the cheesiest exposition insertion I have ever heard.

"Siku..."

"All right, all right. Can I see that clip, for a second?"

"Sure." The Bouncer stepped closer and extended his hand, proffering the envelope to his co-presenter. Siku accepted it, the shy smile growing slowly into a malevolent snigger. The snigger blossomed into a full-blown sinister laughter as the Bouncer realized that she'd handcuffed him to the table.

"Muahahaha! HAHA! Ha... You, Mapleleaf -- don't move." The Major shrugged eloquently and continued wiping the bar. A resigned sigh escaped him as Siku grabbed her neck and pulled her face off. "Wonderful... Yet another Master of Disguises carries out an evil scheme plot. Will that be Bourbon or Guinness?"

"Umm... Bourbon."

"You are done, mate."

"Huh?" The man, whose now-free bright green hair were clashing horribly with the blue-furred suit, turned his attention back to the Bouncer, who seemed to have recovered from the surprise attack and was calmly blowing the imaginary specks of dust off his collar. Frowning, the man snapped his fingers impatiently next to the Bouncer's right ear. "Hey! Want to run that by me again? In case you haven't noticed you are the one hugging the furniture here."

The large shoulders moved under the jacket in an indifferent shrug. "Don't matter a good diddle-squat...Fitzroy, isn't it? Yes, well, see, Trevor... You are obviously destined to lose."

Registering the blank look on the villain's face the Bouncer sighed again. "Amateurs... Didn't you get the Big Book Of Cliches on your arrival here? The winning protagonists always go with Guinness. As it is... You are under arrest, ya miserable toerag!"

As the manacles suddenly fell open on the floor, freeing the Bouncer to pull off his own mask, Trevor gaped. Revealed, Jenny Sparks smirked and a disgusted Major left through the back door, muttering about the plotholes getting bigger every year.

"Now then, Trevor, -- you be a good stock Bad Guy, tell me your evil plan, lose gracefully and let me get on with my life. I'll even let you get in a few good punches during the big showdown."

Cradling the stack of the clips protectively against his chest, Fitzroy backed up, snarling at the Subreality Police Chief. "You'll never take me ali... Really? Can I have the big gun? And the cool bike? And the bunch of scantily clad damsels with knives tucked in all the inappropriate hiding places? And the cool secret base? In a volcano!!! And... Waitaminute... No! You won't trick me that easily, wench!"

Sparks shrugged, moving in closer, "Was worth a shot. Why do you want to spoil the CBFFAs, anyway?"

Fitzroy paused, giving her a strange look. "Umm...duh. I am ee-ville. Like the fru-it of the Dev-eel."

Sparks nodded sagely. "Ahhh. Wanted to be in the movie, didn't you?"

"Yes! But that has nothing to do with it!"

Sparks nodded again in understanding and suddenly lunged for the nefarious villain. The nefarious villain panicked, emitted a high-pitched girlish shriek and jumped for the door. As a surprised Fitzroy fell through the black monolith, followed by an even more surprised and vilely cursing Chief of Subreality Police, the door smirked from its new location twenty meters to the southwest. Mutable reality is kicking that way.

"OW! Chill it, Rick! I got 'em, I got 'em. Triangulating on the nexus by five and voila -- welcome to the Tales of the Common People Universe. See? No need to make with the screaming and the yelling and the shouting."

"Hmm... Nice. Nice. Not thrilling but nice. Okay, Green, roll the Genre Introduction."

Imagine a world much like our own with one small exception: "superheroes" and "supervillains" are not fanciful comic-book inventions but, rather, a dangerous reality. Now imagine that you live in this world...and you're not a superhero or a supervillain. Look past the pages. Underneath the heroics and the drama, people -- human, mutant, and otherwise -- still go to school, work, take vacations and open presents and get drunk and catch movies and scrounge for spare change. Love blooms and dies, children are born, elections and sweeps weeks are discussed around water coolers, and car accidents and taxes and racial rumblings occasionally shatter the peace. In other words, life goes on much as it ever has...with a few startling new twists.

"Cripes and crickety..." Sparks looked around wonderingly. "Something tells me we are not in Kansas anymore."

From under her a weak noise muttered agreement. Frowning, Jenny got up, viciously kicking in the downward direction on her way. "Get yer face out of my boobs and gimme the clips, schmuck."

Sitting up and holding a hand to his bleeding nose, Fitzroy scowled blackly. "Don't have 'em."

"What?!"

"It's not my fault! They got lost when we fell through and you punched me...in my favorite muscle. And it hurt!"

Checking the involuntary strangling motions that her hands were making, Jenny Sparks narrowed her eyes at Fitzroy. "Where the hell are we?"

The green-haired villain's eyes were fixed at some point behind her and his jaw was a little loose. "Umm...I think we are in the TCP Universe. The Tales of the Common People project. You know...the one Phil Foster and Kielle started up."

Sparks frowned suspiciously, "How'd you..."

Not waiting for her to finish Fitzroy mutely pointed and tried to make himself one with the wall. Jenny turned her head slowly, afraid to guess what was standing behind her.

A giant spider was actually third on her list.

The insect whose eyes were still human, turned his...its head, looking right through her, the smaller spiders scurrying around his legs, and suddenly she could hear him...it think:

I've thought about killing myself. Hundreds of times. But they won't let me. They love me. They think I'm beautiful. They'll never leave me. They showed me a place where I could live that no-one would ever find me. They bring me food and drink. I don't ever have to leave my attic, with its heavily curtained window and its shattered mirrors... And I couldn't leave them now. My ex-girlfriend has three children, soon to be four. I have millions of children now. -- RAVEN -- "COBWEBS"

Time froze, the street blurred and the scenes began flashing before her eyes. Seemingly random cutouts of everyday lives of everyday people living in a decidedly un-everyday world.

Of an old man hunched over the drawing board, carefully penciling out the symbol for Hope and Future.

"Got a present for you, sweetie," he said, slipping the blue box out of the pocket of his sweatshirt. He'd brought one for each of the family, but the blue box was for Freedom. "I've come up with something new, and you're getting the prototype." He pulled out the pendant and let it spin on its fine silver chain. Caught off guard, Freedom took it and gave it a puzzled examination. The question mark gleamed in the morning sun. "It's...different, Dad. What is it?" He smiled gently, putting his arm across Buddy's shoulders. "A good starting place." -- SUSAN CRITES -- "REACTIVIST"

A thousand more faces, lives, deaths. Victories and defeats attacked her, overwhelming her with the sheer magnitude. As she passed down she heard a hoarse whisper: "What in the hell is this?"

"Which one?!"

"NOT the big red one!!! "

"Oh, the one with 'Dracoverse Genre' on it?"

"Yes!"

Trevor spat out blood and looked rather sadly at the blood-spattered blue furry costume. "Well, so much for Runner-Up Number One. Now what?" Not hearing a reply, he turned around and appraised the prone form of the SCPD Chief. "Not so tough now huh? Who da man? Who da man who jumped through the black thingie and didn't throw up?! Even though he really wanted to! I ask you who da man?! I am Da Man! And MAN is developing a definite chafing sensation. Ow, ow, ow!"

After incurring only minor damage, Fitzroy managed to get rid of the Siku-camouflage and, bravely giving the still unconscious Sparks a finger, quickly crept away into one of the side alleys. Or as quickly as one could go -- creeping and all. Being a bright and reasonably cosmopolitan man it took Trevor mere minutes to get himself hopelessly lost in...Gotham?

Fitzroy frowned, trying to figure out how he knew where he was. Looking around did little but depress him -- dirt, grime, scary-looking prostitutes, mean-looking dogs... When he got a closer look and realized that it was actually a rat, Trevor smiled shakily and fastened his step. "Lesseee.. what was the label on the second envelope... Lizardverse? Ratverse? Something to do with reptiles..."

"Dracoverse. Kaylee's brainbaby." The flat, decidedly unfriendly and depressingly familiar voice behind him offered helpfully.

Trevor sighed tiredly and turned around, looking sadly at the familiar face. "Sparks, why don't you go and die or something? It's what you Ellis folks do best anyhow. Stick with your strength, my pappy always said."

Jenny jingled the handcuffs and smiled flatly, "I'm hurt. Turn around and spread 'em."

Sighing once again, Fitzroy complied, absently watching two dark silhouettes on a rooftop above them.

The cape did an appropriately dramatic swoosh as it flowed around me when I stood and collapsed the bo. Cape's black. Costume's so dark a green that it might as well be. The cowl's got swept-back ears to keep it from looking too plain, but it's not really meant for anything but to gimme a nice safe skullcap and hide my red hair. Red hair's a lot more distinctive than black. I'd gotten sick of dyeing it after I lost the Robin gig, though, and these days I was sorta on a "be myself" kick. To a layman I probably look like a warped version of Batman. I'm not. Nowhere close. "Draco," he said, his voice as low and grating as it always is when he's wearing the mask. The Scary Voice, but...with an extra roughness...? "Batman," I answered with a nod, barely holding back the smile at the way his lips pressed together at my voice. I learned a little something from you, Bruce. Oh yes I did. -- KAYLEE -- "HERE THERE BE..."

Pushing him toward the monolith, Sparks asked, a little hopefully, "Is this the last of 'em?"

"Nah -- two more. This was the one where Jason Todd survives and goes all kick-ass with working out his Freudian issues on Gotham's steamy underbelly, right?"

Sparks winced. "First of all -- never use phrase 'steamy underbelly' again. Secondly -- yeah, so?"

Stepping through the black, liquid surface Trevor started suddenly. "That would make the next one... Oh, craaaaap!"

"...you are actually the Beyonder?

"Damn straight! The one and only, babe. Can I pull the 'Mookverse Genre' lever?"

"Yes."

"Kewwwwl."

"That wasn't it."

...His hands are around my waist. I can't believe it. Remy LeBeau is a catch. I don't care who you are, whether you hate him, think he's pond scum...to anyone on this earth, he's a catch. Reputation alone makes him worthy of royalty. Hell, he's probably HAD royalty, back in the old days of wining and dining. I can just see it -- Gambit, suave as ever, escorting the princess of Monaco or something, while the rest of the European aristocracy watches with envy and amazement. "What a catch," they'd say. Wouldn't it be lovely if I could get me some of that, they'd be really thinking. ...And his arms are around MY waist. Get a grip, Drake. Let's be reasonable. You're not the princess of Monaco, you don't have exotic beauty that rivals the Miss Universe pageant winners, you're not anything special. Remy is special. He's just enjoying an after-sex cigarette, right? He's not really enjoying YOU, he's enjoying any company, and that's it, don't get so excited... He's rubbing my back. Just small touches, right between my shoulder blades -- little caresses, and they make me feel so warm. I can't ignore what it might mean, and how much more it makes me feel. Why the touch of Remy LeBeau would make me feel so much more than I actually am isn't something I want to think about, because I'm just going to get disappointed. But his fingers are warm, and he's stroking my back, and it's not sexual at all, and that makes it so much more important. It doesn't mean anything. Really. Touching is just touching. But why would you do that to someone who was just property? I don't want to think about that. I don't want to wonder. I'm just going to lay here, and snuggle, and enjoy it. Because, like all those other dames, and probably guys too, I'm falling for Gambit. He's such a catch, and he's wonderful to fantasize about, he's the eternal rogue and charmer, and so beautiful. How could anyone not fall for Gambit? That sounds so strange, and frightening, and almost wonderful, to say. I'm falling for Gambit. But more importantly, I'm falling for Remy. -- LISE -- "IN HIS ARMS"

"Aw for the love of the Dark Side! Get a room! Jeez. Nauseating! Sparks, get me out of here! Sparks? SPAAARKS?! Are you crying?!! There is no crying in Poleece! Stoppit! You're freaking me out."

"Shuddap. Look at 'em. Is cute. Reminds me of my boys."

"It's simply inappropriate! All...all...mooky. And stuff."

"Is cute! Admit it! Admit it, you know you want to."

"I will do no such thing! I am eviile. Pure eviile. Mookiness and all the sappy romantic stuff is against the union rules. Really! It's in the contract! See?"

"Oh , be quiet. Look, they are holding hands and everything."

"I'm not looking. I am NOT looking. I'm planning my next nefarious deed, yes. Yes, that's what I'm doing. I'm a manly villain, yes I am... Awwww, so cuuute."

"Thought so. Let's go."

"Awwww... Gave him ice cream and everything. Is precious! Ahh...I mean... Eww! And... Yucky! And... And... Haha! Look, I am laughing at you ridiculous display of affection. Haha! See? Laughing! And... Uhm... Awwww! Dammit. Curse you, Sparks!"

"And don't worry, Ra's Al Ghul doesn't have to know. Or Galactus. I CAN be bought."

"Witch."

"You know it."

"Oh, come on..."

"No!"

"It was just a little , itty-bitty explosion! Nobody even noticed! And I got the right lever this time! See? 'The Shadowlands Genre.'"

"Get. Away. From. The. Panel."

"All right, that last Runner-Up one was the one started up by Kaylee. Whatchamacallit...the... Yo, Fitzroy, what was it called? The Mookverse, right? Home to all the sappy couples?"

"Uurgh."

"Oh, for Pete's sake...here, have a tissue."

"Thank you."

"No problem...girlie man."

"Shuddap! Like I didn't see you turn on the floodworks!"

"You have no proof. And I have the keys to the handcuffs. So the Mookverse, right?"

"Uhm... yeah. Mostly devoted to Remy/Bobby romance. But don't worry. I have connections.. One of these days, I'll marry you and we'll settle down there... Whoa! Easy with the cattle prod! No need to prove you still love me! Yoaw!"

"That's better. Oh stop whimpering, you are barely singed. Now...if that was Mookverse this is...what?"

"The last nominee?"

"No duh, Brainiac. What Universe is this?"

"Uhmm..."

"I knew it. You have no idea, do you? Why is it always me?! Why me?!"

"Uhmm..."

"I am not a bad person! I do not deserve this! I really don't!"

"Uhm... Spaaarks? Why...why...why is Apocalypse over there milking a camel?"

"Aha... Okaaaaaay. Either I finally had a mild breakdown or..."

"I know! I know! I know where we are!"

"Please enlighten me.. Please?"

"The Shadowlands Universe. You know? The one Alicia McKenzie started? Naah, you have no idea do you? You have that look in your eyes. The one that says 'Yell into my ear if you want to hear an echo.' Don't worry, the narrator voice should turn on in a couple of seconds. Jeez! Awfully free with that cattle prod, ain't ya?"

The beginning point for Shadowlands is what could be termed a second "gathering of the Twelve," set not long after the canonical Twelve Saga in the X-Men books. At that battle, as at the first, Apocalypse steals the powers of the Twelve -- now eleven, with Apocalypse possessing the body of Scott Summers -- but this time, something even more catastrophic happens, something that even manages to overshadow that first heart-wrenching loss. Somehow, perhaps by a misuse of the chrono-variant component of the Twelve's merged powers, perhaps by something else entirely (the why of the situation, even though secondary to the situation itself, is one of the biggest mysteries of all), reality is torn apart at the seams, and every alternate universe in the Multiverse begins to collapse into one another. The distortion manifests as reality shifts where the fabric of space-time rips open to reveal different dimensions, some indiscernible from one another, others so different that even the laws of physics no longer hold true. At first, the shifts come slowly, in discernable patterns, but eventually the patterns begin to break down, and the change becomes constant -- and often, deadly. As the distortion worsens, time as a linear concept ceases to exist. In the Shadowlands, a shifting world composed of an infinite number of alternate realities, there is an equally infinite number of any one person. Characters from the countless timelines where that second battle with Apocalypse never happened can coexist right beside their counterparts from timelines where it did. The battle itself was echoed again and again across the Multiverse, sometimes so similar that the variations are invisible, sometimes wildly different. The Twelve themselves, centers of the disturbance, are slowly falling victim to a gradual, but inexorable psychic "merging" with their alternate selves. As the shifts continue, even those members of the Twelve from timelines where the battle never happened slowly become aware that the chaos is somehow their doing -- and slip, inch by painful inch, into irretrievable madness. But they are, of course, the key to repairing reality.

"Oh, Jesus, that's loud!"

"Well what do you expect? It is the Voice of the Creator."

"Shut it, Trevor. And another thing... "

He wasn't sure what woke him up. Instinct, maybe, his subconscious telling him that something was wrong. Had to be something like that...or maybe it was the dead silence, the calm before the fucking storm, like always... He pushed himself up to a sitting position, blinking at the shift line running right through the middle of the fire. It had missed where he'd been lying by a few inches, no more, and Logan growled under his breath, shaken by the realization of how lose he'd come to something that might have been worse than death. A moment later, he swore, leaping to his feet. On the other side of a shift was a blizzard. That half of the fire was cold and dead, and Cable was sprawled unmoving on the ground, half-buried in the snow. "Nate!" His shout seemed to hang in the air, almost visible, and Logan swore again, this time desperately, as Cable didn't so much as stir. Shit, he probably can't even hear me... -- ALICIA MCKENZIE -- "ASPECT"

"Oh, good going, Sparks. Let's wake up a slightly insane Logan. Goodness knows, we are having such a boring day so far!"

"Fitzroy, I have but one nerve left and you are working it! Get through the freakin' monolith!"

"NO! I wanna say it."

"Excuse me?!"

"Oh, come on! Please? Pleaaase? Pwetty please? With sugar on top?"

"All right, all right! Just stop that! Ewww."

"Thankee. Ahem. It is my supreme honor and privilege to announce that the Winner of The Best Original Genre Award in Comic Book Fanfiction for the year 2000 is...drumroll please?"

"You're pushing it."

"...moving right along. The Award goes to -- the Shadowlands! The concept, created by Alicia McKenzie, swiftly attracted some of the best and talented Writers in comic-book fanfiction. The fascinating idea of a universe torn asunder and trying to knit itself back together, one broken life, one lost destiny, one dashed hope at a time, has also became a quick favorite of the readers and will now take its just place among others of its caliber that won this award. Congratulations go out to all the Writers who contributed to this phenomenon. Our felicitations and gratitude for making the tapestry of fanfiction that much richer."

"Nicely put."

"Thank you."

"Now -- you have the right to..."

John Crichton, astronaut, trans-galactic exile, and the only human being in the Uncharted Territories was already suffering his first weirdness-induced headache of the day.

"D'Argo, don't even touch it. Do not open fire."

He wondered if he should head down to the cargo hold to restrain his hotheaded crewmates in person, but that would leave Zhaan alone on the bridge. The Delvian priest was certainly capable of self-defense, but Moya's crew had found that it was good to have someone watching your back.

Aeryn's voice, filled with irritation, emerged from the communications array. "How can we find out if this obilic is dangerous if we can't examine it properly?"

"I saw it in a movie once. One minute stuff's appearing out of nowhere, the next it's monkeys whacking each other, wormholes freakier than the one I arrived through, and giant space babies. And it's an obelisk."

"Crichton is correct," added Zhaan. "Remain watchful, but don't interfere."

"I'm afraid we have a more urgent problem," said Pilot, his purple visage appearing in the hologram generator. "An object is approaching us rapidly with enough force to puncture Moya's hull."

"Object? Can you be more specific?" asked Zhaan.

"All I can say for certain is that it's traveling under artificial propulsion."

"Peachy," said Crichton. "Can't we just starburst out of the way?"

"I'm afraid there isn't time. I am initializing the defense shield, but I may not have sufficient microns. Moya is very frightened."

John sighed. "That makes two of us."

"Can you tell where it will strike?" Zhaan inquired.

"If it remains on its current course, the cargo hold doors."

John and Zhaan exchanged puzzled glances. "Right where the obelisk is," said Crichton. "Curiouser and curiouser."

"D'Argo, Aeryn," said Zhaan. "An unidentified object is on a collision course with Moya's cargo hold. I suggest you retreat to the corridor."

"Already done," replied D'Argo.

"Nine hundred metras and closing," cautioned Pilot.

"Brace yourselves," said John, gripping the console and wishing he had something to strap himself to, or at least a convenient Aeryn Sun to fall down on. Things went ominously quiet until the suspense became too great for the human.

"Pilot? Shouldn't it have arrived by now?"

"Actually, it seems to be slowing down..."

A sickening crunch, relayed to the bridge by Aeryn and D'Argo's communicators, signaled that it hadn't slowed down enough.

"Pilot, how severe is the damage?" asked Zhaan.

"I'm having trouble getting a reading. Something is interfering with my scans."

John heard D'Argo curse unintelligibly in Luxan, followed by the click of his Qualta Blade and Aeryn's rifle. "What's going on down there?" he asked.

"That something is opening the doors," said Aeryn.

Zhaan and John could do nothing but listen as the two warriors began threatening whoever had emerged. This didn't continue for long, and the next sound was of something heavy hitting the floor without the intervention of laser fire.

"Zhaan?" said Ka D'Argo. "Our visitor appears to be unconscious and unarmed. I suggest you attend to him."

"Human."

"I know you're a doctor and a priest, but I'm this galaxy's leading expert on humans." Crichton tucked the pulse rifle he had taken to carrying around guests under his arm and began marking off points on his fingers. "Firstly, humans do not dress in red and yellow spandex. Secondly, we cannot fly or smash through doors without suffering anything worse than concussion. Thirdly, there aren't any other humans out here. No matter how many species look just like mine."

"I am certain -- there are microbes in his system that I've never seen outside yours. I'm at a loss to explain his clothing or his extra abilities, but he is from Earth."

John Crichton looked at the unconscious man and let out a shaky breath. He wanted to believe that Moya's medical bay currently contained two earthlings, but it couldn't be true.

Zhaan examined her patient's bald scalp, marred by a spreading bruise -- his only apparent injury -- with care. Touching his temples, she closed her eyes, sharing his pain as all Delvian Pa'us could.

"I sense great power in this one," she said. "Are psychics common on your planet?"

"Only the kind that charge five dollars a minute to tell you crap."

At a groan from the bed, John subconsciously raised his weapon. The man made an effort to sit up, and to Crichton's surprise rolled up his sleeve to reveal a digital watch.

"Right on time," he said in American-accented English.

Whatever her divine qualities, however, Zhaan was not omniscient, and although he had been injected with translator microbes Charles was having trouble explaining his situation to the Delvian and her human crewmate.

"So, to cut a long story short we were in the vicinity when we got the call, but without a working ship. I left Magneto behind to deal with the problem and went on ahead, but I'm afraid I must have made a slight miscalculation about my speed and trajectory. I apologise for distressing your craft, but at least I arrived in one piece. I was hoping that one of you could help and, well, it's meant to be a crossover."

Crichton and Zhaan looked bewildered. "Let me get this straight," said the human," you're from Earth, but you're some kind of Superman, and you're here on a mission?"

"I'm not sure that I'd call it a mission, exactly, and I certainly wouldn't call myself Superman. Most of my powers are derived from the entity that currently inhabits my body. Besides, I've always thought it was a stupid codename."

"And this 'Phoenix Force' allowed you to enter Moya more or less unharmed, and to patch up the hole in our hull before you passed out?" asked the priest.

"That's right. I'm power and fire and life incarnate, you know."

"Perhaps you should start at the beginning?" she suggested, looking no more enlightened.

Charles paused, trying to think of a way to explain "comic book," "fanfiction," "awards show," and "Rick Beyonder" to a sentient plant.

"Er, perhaps this is a bit forward of me, but I've always found this easier without words..."

To his delight, Zhaan nodded and smiled at him. "I once entered Unity with John Crichton, and found the experience most interesting. I would be glad to mind link with another human, especially a telepath. Shall we?"

The Delvian held out a hand to him, and he slipped inside her psyche.

She saw:

/a group of people seated at computer terminals across an entire planet, at different times at places yet somehow also together in another place some kind of psychic realm?/
/bunny slippers telepathic cats cartoon characters obscure canadian superhero serving at bar strangely familiar girl waiting tables/
/people coming together to praise their finest well intended if a trifle late/
/a feathered alien woman hastily removed/
/cosmic forces gathering to assist these...writers?...watcher green beyond/
/a white-haired man and arguing about calculations and engine components/

"Do you understand?" Xavier asked, emerging into reality.

"I think so," said the priest, shaking her head in an attempt to overcome the disorientation.

"Now that Zhaan is aware of my situation, perhaps John could explain how a human ended up in this part of the universe?" he suggested.

Chrichton frowned, probably irritated that he wasn't in on the joke, but complied. "Well, It all started when I took my experimental spacecraft Farscape 1 up and fell through a wormhole..."

Charles Xavier looked at John over steepled fingers, an attitude his students would have recognized as a signal that he was about to offer advice. "Forgive me for asking, son, but why?"

"Why? It's Earth."

"Perhaps I'm biased because it's a world that hates and fears me, but I've never understood why people want to spend their entire lives there if they don't have to."

Crichton stood and began pacing the floor. "It's my home. My family is there. My species is there. Beer is there."

"I understand your desire to contact your family and friends, but would you risk losing what you have here? You have faced many dangers, but friendships like those you have found are forged in adversity. You discover a new world every day, filled with excitement, adventure..."

John glanced at Zhaan, who was examining the samples she had extracted from Xavier intently. "Gorgeous alien women?"

"Those too."

"Maybe I'm biased because I'm being pursued by an insane military commander, but I've always been with Dorothy on this one. Are you telling me you came here voluntarily?"

"Actually, I'm on holiday."

John's jaw dropped. "I knew we weren't the same species."

Charles chuckled. "Even so, I believe that I can help you if your heart is set on returning home. The obelisk is a teleportation device linked to Earth, as well as a beacon to travelers."

Because he was watching Crichton's celebration dance with considerable bemusement, Xavier didn't notice that a number of DRDs -- Moya's bug-like service robots -- were moving into formation and aiming their camera "eye stalks" at him until Zhaan touched his arm.

"Charles?" she said, "I think we're on."

"On what?" said the happiest human in the Uncharted Territories.

"Camera, John," said Zhaan. "Charles is here for an Awards Show."

Crichton held up his hands and began backing out of the room, although his demeanor remained cheerful. "That is way over my strangeness threshold -- I'm gonna say goodbye to the others."

Zhaan turned to face the DRDs, only to find Charles watching them with a panicked expression.

/Is something wrong?/ she sent towards him.

/I was going to change out of this dreadful outfit before I appeared before millions on inter-dimensional TV./

/Personally, I think you look fine./

"Like minds merging in perfect Unity, an ideal crossover is a fusion of disparate concepts into a harmonious whole, where the result becomes more than the sum of its parts," Zhaan continued.

"The nominees are as follows."

"Questing, by Matt 'Smoot' Bowyer, in which we find three mages in search of five mutants..."

"That was most gratuitous display of magick I have ever seen in my life," Margaret said. Ian merely shrugged. "Hey, it got the job done, didn't it? Plus, it gave me a chance to work a bit more with Entropy, Time, and Mind, which everyone knows I'm a bit out of practice with." Margaret eyed Ian warily. "You make supermarket clerks knock entire shelves over all the time because of the 'random' slick spot on the floor. You're not out of practice with that at all." Sighing, she turned to Alexander. "Did that whole display have anything good as its result?" Alexander grinned and nodded. "We found them. Three rows back on the other side of the ring. The red sunglasses were what gave it away. Well, after some Working, at least." Margaret tilted her head to one side. "How so?" "A little temporary alteration of what range of light beams my eye would recognize," Alexander said, the pride in his voice plain. "I took college physics, I know all about the nature of light and all that. If all I can see is red, red glasses stick out like Ian in a convent, which, you'll recall, stuck out rather well."

"The Chosen Few, by Ana Lyssie Cotton, where Alicia McKenzie's Shadowlands reach the realm of Buffy The Vampire Slayer..."

Flonq it all. That last one had been bad. Real bad. As if some extra oomph was put into the effort by the shift. He winced and slowly sat up, carefully ignoring the protests his body made. His surroundings swam into view. The wall next to him was a blinding white. Sunlight poured down thickly onto grass and trees all around him. The branches swayed in a breeze. Flonqing hell. It was almost a paradise. "Excuse me." The voice came from his left, and he turned carefully. "Yes?" She was about Tabitha's age. Blonde like her, too. That was where the resemblance ended. This young woman carried herself with a calm strength that reminded him of some of the Askani. As if she knew exactly what she was capable of and wasn't afraid of doing it. "Who are you?" She smiled and gestured. "You see, men who have, um, metallic arms, don't just pop out of nowhere for no reason. There's usually something bad about to happen then." She'd seen him come through the shift, then. He winced and stood. Who was he indeed. He chuckled bitterly. "My name is Nathan. And I truly mean you no harm." "That's nice. I'm Buffy." Buffy. It was all this world needed. A paradise, and a girl named Buffy. He threw back his head and laughed. The sound was harsh at first, then slowed down into something deep and disturbed. The girl stepped back, worry in her eyes. "Are you all right?" "Is anyone?"

"Cain vs. Abel 1979 by Matt Nute," said Zhaan, "set in an amalgam world where Steve Rogers and Superman become brothers..."

As the fireworks cast their light over our faces, we heard the whistling overhead. I can still remember looking up, wondering if one of the sparkler rockets had gone astray, and was going to sail into the field. It wasn't fireworks. Whatever it was hit right behind us, tossing us all forward on a wave of weeds and dirt. I spat out dust and got up, when I could find the breath to move. Tommy was crying over a skinned knee, and the other two were shaking their heads like they just got off the Coney Island coasters. I turned, and I saw the ditch, still steaming. And something smoking at the end. It looked like a big silver egg, about the size of a barrel. It was steaming, and some of the weeds around had caught little fires. I could hear some of the grownups running around behind us, and I knew that Ma would drag me away soon as she saw me near it. So I did what any boy would do. I touched it. It was like sticking my hand flat onto Ma's iron. I jerked away, blowing on my fingers, then the egg started hissing. I thought it was some kind of German bomb that they had dropped on Smallville, and we were all going to die. I closed my eyes, expecting the explosion. I heard Ma behind me, and Mrs. Lang, and Rabbi Rosenthal, and what must have been half the darn town. And then I heard something else. Not an explosion. I heard...a baby? I opened my eyes. And my world changed.

"Vale Of Sun, Valley Of Snow, by Indigo, another Buffy crossover where a spell gone wrong lands Husk and Chamber in Sunnydale, California, while the Slayer and her wayward love interest Angel end up in Snow Valley..."

"We have got to get back." Buffy paced uneasily. "With me gone, and Faith locked up, there's no Slayer. Sunnydale's helpless until I return, or until the Great Whatever realizes there's a hole and lays the Slayer mojo on some other girl." She frowned thoughtfully. "'Course that usually happens only if a Slayer dies, so I'm not sure what will happen." "If Paige looks enough like you to fool magic and to freak your friends like you freaked us," Angelo considered, "Maybe she can understudy your Slayer gig 'til we find out how to get you home." "I...don't think so," Buffy shook her head. "It's not something that comes without training and some pretty specialized skills." "Specialized skills like ripping off her natural born skin and producing a body underneath of whatever she damn well feels like?" Angelo offered in return. "Whatever she...?" Buffy paused, startled. Jubilee nodded. "Her power. We've all got special ones, but that's what Paige can do." "Can she turn into wood?" "Easily," Monet confirmed. Buffy sighed, a bit relieved. "She might survive long enough for me to get home after all."

"The Stuff Of Dreams and The Realm Of Possibilities, by Rossi, which introduce Tim Hunter to Subreality..."

"What'll it be, kid?" asked the large man behind the bar with a grin. "Southern Comfort." The man's eyes crinkled. "Look, kid, your Writer might let you touch that stuff, and you might even be a de-aged version of your normal drinking self, but I'm not giving a kid like you booze. How about a ginger ale?" "Fine," Tim sighed. It seemed that no matter how strange the place was, some things stayed constant. Even if the explanation given hadn't made one iota of sense. Sipping at the ginger ale, he cast his eyes around the place, looking for some kind of reference point, something that would tell him where he was. On his shoulder, Yo-Yo noted the lizard sitting on the shoulder of the woman beside them. Hmm, it was about dinner-time... "Don't even think about it, bird-brain," hissed the lizard, turning abruptly to fix a shining black-eyed glare on the owl. "Or I'll fixx you here and now, magic or not."

Charles frowned as a deafening drum roll started, and made a mental note to have words with Rick Beyonder, cosmic entity to cosmic entity, about the quality of the sound effects this year. Fortunately, Zhaan didn't skip a beat.

"The winner of this year's Creative License for Best Serious Crossover is The Chosen Few, by Ana Lyssie Cotton."

Even the serene Pa'u flinched at the canned applause, complete with whoops and cheers, that followed her announcement. The camera didn't capture her reaction for long, though, for now that the winner was revealed the attention of cosmic forces and fanfiction writers alike flickered away from Moya's bridge, like a vulture abandoning bones it had picked clean.

John Crichton stood next to the obelisk with Zhaan and Charles Xavier. He had already exchanged farewells with the rest of the crew, who would have been placing bets on his chances of getting home had anyone believed them to be greater than zero.

"You needn't worry," said Xavier. "My method of travel is rather haphazard, but I arrive eventually."

"Actually, I wondered if you might stay for a while," said Zhaan evenly, eyes fixed on the obelisk.

"Use my phenomenal powers to vanquish your enemies? Make inappropriate yet amusing references to Earth popular culture?" said Xavier, developing an intense interest in the floor.

"That kind of thing, yes," the priest replied.

John Crichton grinned. "I can tell you want to be alone, so I'll be going. If you're even in Florida, feel free to drop in."

With that, John embraced his Delvian friend one last time and reached out to touch the obelisk, vanishing without even a puff of smoke to mark his passing.

Charles Xavier stood a respectful distance from the Delvian as she wiped tears of mixed sorrow and joy from her eyes. She was even gorgeous when she cried.

"I'm sure he'll survive," he said reassuringly. "Humans are surprisingly resourceful when we have to be."

"I had noticed."

Some unspoken communication led the both to turn to enter Moya's humming corridors. Charles examined the biomechanical craft with fascination, wondering if he could communicate with the Leviathan as he had learned to do with Shi'ar living ships. He looked forward to trying, and decided that he was going to enjoy his stay.

As if sensing his thoughts -- which was quite possible, all things considered -- Zhaan brushed against him.

"I hope that your companion will be happy to remain with us as well."

"Oh, don't worry about Erik -- I can usually talk him into things. When I really have to."

"So, what did you do to amuse yourselves when you were stuck in the void of space?" she asked.

"We played chess. Lots of chess."

Xavier was slightly surprised to find that they had stopped moving, and that he seemed to be staring into her yellow, cat-like eyes again. He cleared his throat.

"You don't happen to have an Empire that needs liberating from your evil brother, do you?"

"Not precisely. However, my home planet is held in thrall by the Peace Keepers."

If High Command could have seen the grin on Charles Xavier's face at that moment, they would have surrendered immediately, offered to pay the Delvians compensation, and retired to take up embroidery.

"They won't know what hit them."

"Excuse me?" he shouted over the crowd, dodging the larger snack foods that had been added to the popcorn assault. "Is this Earth?"

"It's the frelling Satellite of Love," said a voice from the audience, "and you're making us miss the next segment. Sit down."

With a resigned shrug, the man who was no longer the only human in the Uncharted Territories made his way to the back of the theater and settled into a seat.

At least it was better than the Aurora Chair.

There was a splendor of stars through the windows that banded the space restaurant like silver straps. Against the incomparable panorama of the universe packing it in like a sullen student renter, waiters, busboys, and the occasional entree scurried between the tables, taking orders and delivering them. The Restaurant At The End Of The Universe had seen everything in its time, but finally something new, bizarre, and less predictable than Zaphod Beeblebrox walked through the door.

Charles Xavier adjusted his tie as his first student wheeled him down the centre of the tables and up a short ramp on to the stage set against the collapsing stars and spiraling energy. Jean Grey, filling her original costume in a somewhat exaggerated fashion, pushed him to the podium and stood behind his chair proudly. Cameras swooped to catch his movements as he smoothed his jacket and pulled out a small set of cue cards from inside his jacket.

The crowd waited expectantly. The fanfic writers watching the awards from their seats in the Satellite of Love waited expectantly (and a little nervously). One of the serving cows paused from the tenderizing of his flank to watch expectantly.

Charles Xavier coughed, cleared his throat, and smiled warmly. "Writers, beings, and all our viewing audience. Our universe is one of holes, through which all manner of things can move, travel, and interact. That interaction sometimes has fearsome results, or bloody ones, or even ones that involve whips and gerbil lube." The audience blinked as a collective whole. "Some things were even funny, like this mockery of an awards show. In fact, I wish to present something before I do the Best Humourous Crossover award. I'd like to present you with a little something I've been waiting a long time to do."

Charles tossed his cue cards over his shoulder and pulled Jean Grey on to his lap. The nubile redhead straddled her older mentor as they kissed deeply. A stunned silence descended on the audience as the cameras focused in on Xavier's and Grey's tongues dueling wetly over each other. Charles hands were busy in other places, and every mike caught Jean Grey's throaty moans of "Oh, more Daddy! More!" Even the cow was stunned enough to miss with his meat mallet, thus ruining an order of Rocky Mountain Oysters for an unfortunate customer.

The stunned, silent, and nauseated crowd sat in horror as the respected Professor's hand disappeared under the blouse of Marvel Girl's costume, and even Rick Beyonder was about to apply the Cosmic Censor when things really got weird.

Nothing kills the sexual urge like a short, bald-headed kid walking up behind you, shaking his head and muttering "Good grief!"

"That's enough, Professor. Or would you prefer your real name -- Bendix?" Another bald man had appeared, in a dark suit and overcoat, holding up a wallet with his badge flashing. "Agent Skinner, FBI."

Xavier's head whipped up from its burrowing between Jean Grey's breasts and snarled, "What are you doing here?"

"The FBI takes an active interest in mad bastards wandering about. That and killers like your 'student' there." Agent Skinner jerked a thumb at "Jean Grey." "I'm amazed you could talk Rose Tattoo into this. She's normally more laconic."

"You don't--"

"She looks kinda like the little red-headed girl," the bald-headed kid said speculatively, and Skinner shook his head.

"You're a good man, Charlie Brown, but that there is a very bad girl. All right Bendix, Rose, off you go." The Door opened on stage and Skinner kicked the back of the wheelchair, tumbling it through the shimmering slash of energy. The last thing heard was "Who are you calling poofs, Baldy?" before the Door slid shut, leaving Skinner and Charlie Brown on stage.

"Um, hi. I guess we're the new presenters of the Best Humorous Crossover Awards for the CBFFA's this year." Walter Skinner adjusted one of the microphones for his shorter companion and turned back to the pick-up. "As Bendix said, our worlds often have a separation as thin as a writer can make them, and the strangest mix-ups and pairings can happen."

"Yes. One minute you're a treasure hunter with a pair of big guns, and then next, you're grouped with a paranoid federal agent, an English bloodsucker, and a cross-temporal messiah." Charlie Brown squinted at the teleprompter. "Cross-temporal messiah? Gee whiz..."

"This year, we celebrate the best of the best. And the nominees are..."

"Personals. Author: Kaylee. A look at the classified personal ads of a cross-continuity comic newspaper."

Loverbird: In an amazing coincidence, immediately after you mentioned "Hawaii" I found an unmarked envelope in the mailbox holding two plane tickets to Maui made out in our names. Isn't that remarkable? It wouldn't make sense to let these go to waste... -- Myopic Stretch: Your glowing praise for my mashed potatoes and gravy would feel more genuine if I had actually MADE mashed potatoes and gravy. Tell me again just why that Latverian dictator respects you so much...? -- Susan Cuddly Russkie: You're just part of a conspiracy trying to make me believe there's a conspiracy to lead me around chasing conspiracies that aren't even REAL conspiracies, while the conspiracy to present false conspiracies is REALLY a conspiracy to convince me that the bulk of the true conspiracies are fake conspiracies which are all just part of a real government conspiracy rather than extraterrestrial conspiracies, or extraterrestrial conspiracies in concert with secret governmental conspiracies. So no matter what, there's a conspiracy. Probably a whole pile of them. Mounds. Reams. Acres of conspiracies. I want my own conspiracy, d-mn it. Everyone else has one. Want to conspire? -- Foxy Man Cuddly Russkie: And how do they know it's THE most covert antiterrorist group on the planet? If there were antiterrorist groups that were MORE covert, they wouldn't know about them. Right? -- Foxy Man

"The Getting Of Wisdom. Author: Amanda Sichter. A pairing of Pete Wisdom of X-Men fame, and Maxwell Smart, from the camp television hit, 'Get Smart.'"

"So we're meeting your informant, who'll be disguised as a beautiful woman, in the revolving door of the hotel that's under the overpass and over the underpass?" Pete's voice was beginning to join his eyebrows in a climb into the upper registers. "No -- the hotel that's over the underpass and under the overpass. The hotel that's under the overpass and over the underpass is the Metropolitan. No-one meets there." Max's voice was full of scorn. "What?" he asked eventually, as Pete's open-mouthed stare finally got to him. Pete cleared his throat gently and whispered, "I don't know how to tell you this -- but, your shoe is ringing."

"Good grief! 'X-Men In Pokeworld'. Author: Maria Cline. Blending the most popular children's show of the Nineties with the most popular comic book."

Chancey had a surprised look on her face as she said, (I never heard of another Pokemon apologizing for injuring other Pokemon in battle. You're not like other Pokemon.) Scott nodded sadly and said, (I'm different.) (I'll get your trainer after you rest. She and her other friends will be here,) Chancy said as she left. Scott sighed as he sat on the bed. It was on the floor and it was easy for him to get on. He lay down on the bed with his back when he realized that he now had a body of a humanoid turtle. (Shit,) Scott muttered as he waved his arms and legs to get off of his back. (Someone? Anyone? Help!)

"'Christmas At Stake.' Author: Dex. Vampire meets cliche as Preacher's Cassidy and Buffy The Vampire Slayer collide."

Right, so here's the thing then, aye? Christmas Eve, and I'm pissed as fuck in this little bar in New Orleans. Papa Leon served to college kids, black dock workers, strippers on breaks, tourists and your normal blend of New Orleans crowd that washed up on the bars at ten on a holiday night. Gennie is putting little plastic Christmas-tree swizzle sticks into everyone's drinks and her daughter Betts had just put out the tray of turkey bites when the doors opened, and she walked in. Long blonde hair, old leather jacket, bandoleer of stakes and a cross hanging around her neck. Oh, and a big fuckin' crossbow in her hands. I was in the middle of chatting up a stripper named Candy with the biggest tits I'd ever seen at the time. Bollocks. "All right, freak. Time's up," she says, in this whiny accent, and I'm draining my pint for the moral support. Of course, Rene thinks she's talking about him and stumbles up to her with his hands in the air. "You got me, Marshal. But I didn't kill my wife." And then pukes up on her nice shoes. You can always rely on good old Rene. She jumped back like he'd set her pretty Gap outfit on fire, and gave me the moment to ease off towards the bog for a quick bit of vampiric escape; i.e crawling through the gents room window and heading off down the street. The bloody foot of crossbow bolt that slammed into the door beside me slowed me down a bit. "Not so fast, bloodsucker!" I hate that bloody name. Not like I need to wank and call them "kine" or "lunch" or anything like that. "I've got a Christmas present for you!" "Now wait jus' a bloody minute!" I started, and she highkicked over drunkRon, somersaulted like this acrobat I shacked up with during the Depression and dropped right in front of me. "Yeh don' know what the fockin' hell you're dealing--" And then she staked me right through the fockin' heart.

"And finally, 'Star Trek: Authority'. Authors: DuAnn Cowart, Falstaff, Tapestry, & Lynxie. The wildly popular Authority meets the even more popular Star Trek franchise."

"Oh, fuck. Bloody useless, the lot of you. All right, let's get this over with. Next one of you stupid plonkers to disturb the Doctor's viewing pleasure has to stay behind and mind the bloody Carrier while the rest of us go to the Planet Of The Nubile Young Sexually-Compatible And Very Friendly Alien Men With Large Pleasure Appendages." Jack narrowed his gaze. "You sexist. Why can't there be a planet of Nubile Young Sexually-Compatable And Very Friendly Alien Women, instead?" Jenny grinned. "Cause I'm the bloody leader and I say we're goin' to the Planet of Nubile Young Men." "That's not fair..." "All right. Let's take a vote. All in favor of Nubile Young Men, raise your hand now." All around him, hands went up -- Angie and Jenny first, then Shen. Midnighter and Apollo looked at each other, then both shot muscled forearms up in the air. The Doctor paid them no mind, only scowled at the continued talking. "There you go, Jack. Five in favor, one against, one absention. You're bloody outvoted." "Hmphf. You stacked the deck..." "Whatever, Hawksmoor." Jenny sighed, then stared morosely at the screen. "Damn, Shatner's gotten old." "Not everybody stays as pert as you, Jenny." "You don't bloody say. Well, doesn't matter. Patrick Stewart's making a good show for us geriatrics now, isn't he?" Angie grinned speculatively. "He sure is. Nice chest for an old man... Ah, hell. I like Next Generation better than this." She waved a hand at the huge screen. "It's a better show, anyway." Jenny quirked her lips in a snarl. "If that bald git Picard would FIRE the fucking PHASERS, he might actually WIN every now and then!" Jack turned to her, and in all seriousness added "But Jenny, that would be breaking the Prime Directive. And he's English." "He's not English, he's a fucking Frenchman, isn't he now? That's different. Froggies are born to be arseholes about the rules. Cheese-eatin' surrender monkeys." Apollo murmured, "You can take the girl out of pre-WWI London..." Angie grinned, and looked up, quoting something. "All I learned about aliens I learned from Star Trek." Jenny burst out laughing. "Angie, you're in for a hell of a surprise. All I learnt about aliens was from fu--" "Yes, Jenny. We've met your ex-husband."

"And the winner is... Charlie Brown. The envelope?"

"Ugh." Charlie Brown said, holding forlornly to the end of a kite string, which lead to an irreversibly tangled kite in one of the restaurant's huge potted plants. "I thought that--"

"Never mind." Skinner tapped on his celphone for a few minutes and whispered into Charlie Brown's ear.

"And the winner of the 2001 CBFFA Creative License for Best Humourous Crossover is Amanda Sichter for her work, 'The Getting Of Wisdom.'" There was a flare as the universe began to collapse at the announcement and the award was sent out to its stunned winner.

"And that's it for us. Come on, Charlie Brown. Like they say, the truth is out there. It's up to us to find it."

"Like the Great Pumpkin Linus keeps talking about?"

"Something like that." Skinner stepped aside to allow the black-and-white beagle through the door first, before following the bald-headed kid after.

At the end of his shift, Peter Wisdom walked out of the pyramid-shaped Ministry Of Truth or Minitrue, in Newspeak. His hands and overalls were still greasy from his day's work in the Fiction Department over one of the short story machines. It was a simple, yet important job he had...running the presses which printed the copies of short fiction newly translated into Newspeak, rendering the old classics into abbreviated volumes consumable by the masses of Oceania. But today had been different. Today he had been called to the editor's office to run an errand...something a bit unusual in the routine of the Ministry Of Truth.

It was the dark-haired girl on the novel-writing machine who had told him. Her spanner was still in her hand when she'd tapped him on the shoulder and smirked as she tugged on the narrow, red sash wrapped tightly around her waist, an emblem of the Junior Anti-Sex League. She then merely pointed while not saying a word, her lean hand motioning toward Oliver, the chief editor. He swallowed hard as the older man stared at him and motioned for him to follow him to the office that overlooked the production floor below.

His mind reeled in panic as he thought back over all the days he had worked for the Department Of Fiction, searching for any trace of thought crime he had committed in public or private, wondering how Oliver might have caught wind of his often traitorous thoughts...thoughts he had never acted on, much less even mumbled aloud to himself.

As he stepped inside the editor's immaculate and sparse office, he held his posture loosely, doing his best to display no sign of defiance. An upright posture, he had learned long ago, was often enough to warrant an investigation by the Thought Police.

And while he waited for the noose to tighten around his neck, Oliver slipped a metal cylinder into his hand instead and said simply, "I want you to deliver this to an office of the lower levels."

He looked up at Oliver, his expression showing the question he dared not ask.

Strangely, Oliver answered the question for him. "They need to be destroyed."

Wisdom pointed to the three orifices in the wall next to Oliver's spotless desk, specifically the narrow grate where all loose pieces of paper and documents that were of no worth were sent for incineration. "What about the memory hole?"

He regretted the question as soon as it left his lips and was sure that Oliver noticed him wince at his mistake. But instead of calling attention to the subordination, Oliver merely said, "Take it to 01257. Lower level."

But before Wisdom had a chance to say another word, Oliver turned his back and walked toward his desk as he said quietly, "The Department has no name."

If he hadn't learned long ago to keep his face stoical while his thoughts and emotions swirled turbulently behind his eyes, no doubt his jaw would have dropped before he composed himself and left the room. No department at the Minitrue was unnamed. Everything had a label, a purpose. It became apparent to Wisdom that he has become either a party to something very covert or that his superiors were testing him.

Either way, he decided it was best to complete his errand as quickly as possible and return to the anonymity of his labors at the short story machine.

As he carried the cylinder to the lower levels of the Ministry of Truth, the walls hummed louder and louder with activity from the pneumatic chutes that crawled through the walls like a linear network of tiny catacombs. But as he reached the dark corner where Oliver sent him, the humming died to a tiny buzz and it was obvious very few communications came in or out.

Finally, in front of the door marked in rusty numbers "01257," a lump formed in Wisdom's throat as he knocked on the door. A slat above the numbers then opened and a pair of red-rimmed eyes darted aggressively toward him. "What do you want?"

Wisdom said quietly, "Oliver sent me."

Before he had a chance to think, the door flew open and he was pulled inside to face a small man with a stooped posture as the cylinder was tugged from hands. He looked around him, expecting a large incinerator or other apparatus rumored to be at the bottom of the memory hole, but found himself in nothing less than a drippy, dank janitor's closet as the short man emptied the contents of the tube onto a small table and fingered quickly through the papers inside.

Looking over the man's shoulder, Wisdom noticed titles and names. These were short stories, something that was a part of a collection called the "2001 Comic Book Fan Fiction Awards." This selection was labeled in bold letters "Best Serious Fanfic."

The man flipped eagerly through them and Wisdom was surprised by his uninhibited gestures.

"Under A Blue Kentucky Sky" by Dr. Benway
"A Child's Tears" by Michele Craighead
"Crusade" by Alicia McKenzie
"Dialogue" by Poi Lass
"The Godless Among Them" by Dyce-Elihara
"If I Should Die" by Amanda Sichter
"Martha's Story" by Samuel Hawkins
"Speaker For The Dead" by Dannell Lites
"The Sum Of Zero" by Dex
"The Ticket" by Domenika Marzione

But when the man got to a story called "X-Manson" by a Dr. Benway, labeled the winner of "Best Serious Fanfic" he paused and Wisdom was able to read some of the content over his shoulder.

"GL: I have no idea if that will come across in your program. There are so many ways that you could play it. A medieval morality play with sleeping dead women in lakes. A film noir with a pregnant woman rushed out of town with a suitcase full of cash. A gothic horror with murderers chasing defenseless women across the moors. Children who can fly escaping from it all like Peter Pan flying to Never-Never Land. Justice from the hands of a simple giant? Plucky survivors moving on to start new lives? Even though I and so many others have survived this, we have not done so unscathed. None of the children from that house will ever be normal, nor will anyone be who ever escaped it."

The small man then smiled as he return the stories to the tube, hid them in his overalls and turned to face Wisdom. "Return to your post. You don't want to be late for the Two Minutes Hate."

And then he left the tiny room, leaving Wisdom alone.

It suddenly dawned on Wisdom that he was right on both accounts about his errand. He had become a party to something covert and perhaps traitorous. And he was being tested...by Oliver. He realized the stories within the cylinder were not to be destroyed, they were being taken some place safe, some place where the prying eyes of the Minitrue and Big Brother would not censor or destroy them. And for the first time since Wisdom could remember, he smiled a smile of satisfaction.

There was now an understanding between him and Oliver...a quiet understanding of rebellion that could never be voiced or even hinted at. And as he left the small janitor's locker and walked back to his post, his posture a little more upright than it was before he entered but his eyes still downcast, though not so downcast as to cause suspicion, he felt something he had only felt a glimmer of when he allowed himself to be caught up in the ecstasy of the Two Minutes Hate. It was victory. But not false, state-induced victory. It was private and real and his own.

The world would never be the same for him. And his stomach flip-flopped with the glorious realization of it.

Back at his post, he filed with his fellow workers to the Two Minutes Hate, shouting and crying just as loud as everyone else. But his heart was someplace else and he grinned inwardly the rest of his shift as he felt the approving gaze of Oliver over his shoulder when he return to the short story machine.

And on his way home, he didn't bother looking over his shoulder. He suddenly didn't care if the Thought Police were behind him. In the act of someone else's planned defiance, he found something he had never expected. Joy.

A poster of Big Brother loomed above the street, taunting his insolence. But it didn't matter. Because he was truly alive, something he didn't think anyone in Oceania could be anymore.

Something he knew was outlawed.

And while his face never showed the slightest crinkle of disgust as he stared into the stern but vacuous eyes that followed his every step on the streets of London, inside he laughed as he thought silently, Big Brother Is Watching You.

"War Is Peace," he whispered to himself as he walked through the glass doors of Victory Mansions.

"Freedom Is Slavery," he recited as he climbed the stairs to his barren flat.

"Ignorance Is Strength," he burbled as he wrapped his lips around a bottle of Victory Gin and later passed out on his small cot in the dark.

My name is Victor Creed. Some people call me Sabretooth. Some just call me Creed. Some call me the last thing they ever see on this world. Actually, a LOT of people get to call me that. Take the nice folks in this VERY expensive mansion in front of me, fer instance. They, unfortunately for them (but very lucky for my numbered Swiss account), finally pissed off a family member, a cousin if I'm not mistaken. Said cousin had a lackey make a phone call...and here I am. Hope their insurance is paid up.

The security tech is top notch. The best money can buy, complemented by the best money can invent. The passive motion detectors, heat sensors and audio/video suites are all top of the line. Not only that, but there are no less than four surveillance satellites in geo-synchronous orbit, at least two of which are paid for by the insurers for these people.

Doesn't matter. Despite what a certain sawed-off adamantium-laced Canadian runt will tell you, I am the best there is at what I do, and what I do is kill people.

I found the flaws in the satellite coverage yesterday. I move low, silent and keep my vital signs minimal. Nothing to it. In forty minutes I'm at their front door, sniffing for any sign of trouble. Lots of scents in the house. Some strong, some weak. The parents aren't home. I'll hit them later. Too bad for them. Front doors too wired to bust in easy, so thirty seconds and I'm at the garage, tho' calling this place a garage is like calling the Taj Mahal a nice summer cottage. They got more cars than the US Army motor pool, and better armour on some of them, I'm betting. Which is perfect.

I take the driver as he comes out to do his nightly check for tomorrow's cars. Anyone wearing that stupid looking a uniform deserves to be taken out. I mean, come on...purple? The file said he was a former Marine escape & evasion specialist. So much for the pride of the corps. I reach out from beneath a four ton bomb proof limo and "Bascomb" takes early retirement.

His set of keys gives me access to the limo. I start it up, move it to the back of the massive garage and floor it. The limo eats up the driveway to the house like a NASCAR special. By the time I crash through the front of the house, the speedometer is buried at 240mph. I make a mental note to find out where they had this car made. The armour is sweet, and the front door, reinforced brick walls, and roman style pillars barely slow me down. I bail out as the car tears up a foyer the size of a Wal-Mart and most of a staircase. Before the dust has cleared I'm out and moving. Anyone this loaded will have private security, and I want to make the hit before things get bloody enough to make it hard to focus. I catch the scent of a young male and follow it. The kid will be first. The instructions were explicit.

"There's the fiend, Irona!" I hear a Brit-accented voice call out. I crouch and see the hired help coming to play. A man in a butler's outfit is charging me with an umbrella held like a duelling weapon. One step ahead of him is a robot. I actually blink for a sec, registering that it's dressed in the upper half of a French-maid outfit, its humanoid body carried on a single metal stand over a wheel that propels "her" just fast enough that when her arms suddenly extend, she grabs me.

"I have him, Cadbury!" she says. I let her think so, then bare my claws and rake them across her metal forearms. Sparks fly and I nearly sever them on the first go. "Cadbury" attacks, stabbing his umbrella through my gut. I meet his eyes, then hit him repeatedly around the face until he lets go and drops. The robot makes another play, but I rip the umbrella out of my gut and jam it into her lower torso hard enough to snap the circuit controlling the wheel.

She pitches over and I'm back on the hunt. I have the scent strongly now and I howl as I run towards my prey. Two hallways the size of a football field and then I'm tearing a door off its hinges. The kid's inside. I can smell him. I have all of a second to register his complete lack of fear when something hits me sideways, growling. I roll and try to break free, but the thing has its teeth into my shoulder and was not letting go. I manage to get my claws into its side and the thing jumps back. I get a look at it now. It's a dog, about the size of a large German Shepherd but white, with black markings that look like dollar signs. Genetic engineering product, I'm betting. Must be expensive. Too bad I'm not in the mood to play. I let him see my fangs, but the mutt's not impressed. He gathers himself for another attack when a voice rings out, young, but commanding;

"Dollar, heel!"

The cur backs off, never taking his eyes off me and I focus on the speaker. It's my main target, no doubt. He looks young, all gussied up on a black dinner jacket, white shirt, big red bowtie and blue shorts. Fashion plate the kid was not, but he sat there in a hand-carved oka chair with a huge stylized "R" over his head wearing his authority like the Kingpin himself. The babes behind him were just as young. One was a little redhead in a schoolgirl outfit. The other, a brunette, had this spotted dress on that only hinted at her charms.

"Can we have him, Richie?" the redhead asked. The brunette smiled and held up a branding iron shaped like a round dot.

"No, Gloria, you and Dot just watch for now. I want to test out Professor Keanbean's latest offering."

I didn't wait to hear more -- I attacked. The kid just pressed a button on his watch and suddenly I wasn't even in the room...I wasn't even in my own body. Stories played out in front of my eyes, and all I could do was watch. And it was horrible...HORRIBLE. They were all...funny.

I hated it...I wanted to kill, to cut and rend and tear, and instead, I couldn't even blink...

I heard the kid's voice somewhere distantly...

"The machine runs fanfic directly into the subject's brain. It picks a genre that is the antithesis of the subject's preferences, then sorts through many until it finds the one most despised. In Sabretooth's case, his brain is helping us find the funniest, most humourous fanfic written in the last year..."

It was. It was worse then horrible...In my mind, I was weak. I was feeble. I was an accountant, an X-Man...I was Bobby "Iceman" Drake, AND ALL MY EX-GIRLFRIENDS WERE RETURNING TO HAUNT ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!

..."BOBBY!" ...Bobby surveyed the girl. She was petite, with short blonde hair, in a rather out-of-date style, and dressed in shorts and a halter-top. "You don't remember me, do you?" she asked brightly. "Umm..." "It's me! Cloud!" Bobby blinked. "Hey, it is! I didn't recognize you with clothes on!" Cloud scowled playfully putting her hands on her hips. "You guys could have told me it was socially unacceptable to wander around in nothing but puffs of condensation." "Um...I was nineteen?" Bobby tried to excuse, knowing fully well that he would do it again when he was ninety, if he got the chance. ..."Hello, Bobby," another voice chimed in, as a second girl appeared behind Cloud. "Margie?" Bobby exclaimed, cocking one eyebrow. "You ruined the exciting part of my story!" Cloud sniffed. "So, while I was busy being a cosmic entity, I met Blivvy here. And we got to talking, and it turns out we both used to date you!" Bobby didn't have any sort of spider-sense. After years as a brawler, he'd yet to develop any sort of sense of impending doom. But he knew, deep down in the depths of his soul, that when two of one's ex-girlfriends get together, no good can come of it. "We had so much fun talking, and got to be good friends, and since we were both cosmic forces, we decided to hang out together!" "Keen," Bobby commented dryly. ..."And then, while we were traveling," Cloud bubbled on, "We met Lev. And it turned out that she dated you, too! It was, like, too big a coincidence! So we decided to come visit!" "Visit?" Bobby echoed. ...Bobby always knew this day would come. The day he was murdered by one of his ex-girlfriends. He'd always assumed it would be Opal....

I curled into a ball and whimpered. It was awful...too awful...I felt the kid come over and pet me like a dog, and I could do nothing. The real dog, "Dollar," peed on my leg and I could do nothing.

"There, there, Mr. Creed...you just enjoy the show, and when you're nice and compliant, we'll see about sending you back to Cousin Reggie with a rather harsh message. Gloria, do go fill up the hot tub, would you?"

Runners-Up:
Open House by Paradoqz
Apocalyptic Dementia by Ana Lyssie Cotton
The Fishing Trip set by Andraste
Gambit's Cat-astrophe by Jacque Koh
The Godless Among Them by Dyce-Elihara
My Time In Australia By Alex Summers by Maggiecat
Night Terrors by Ana Lyssie Cotton
Personals by Kaylee
Star Trek: Authority by DuAnn Cowart, Falstaff, Tapestry, & Lynxie
Zoo Day by DuAnn Cowart

CONGRATULATIONS to all! This has been an Abyssmal production.

Without warning, a pocket of space-warp barely bigger than a breadbox opened up between the ceiling and a table and a rather large book, bound in gleaming metal, plummeted to its surface with slightly less force than an anvil. Drinks were slopped all over the place and a plate of cheese nachos were upset all over the great white tunic of Supreme himself.

Suprema, sitting beside her relative, clapped both hands to her cheeks. "Jiminy-golly-gosh-oh-heck, brother," she squealed. "You've got crunchy cheese dip all over your shirt."

"Yes. Well..." Supreme, holding in his anger with near-megaton force, grabbed a napkin and started sopping some of the mess up. "Very observant, Suprema. But what can one make of the book itself?"

Miracleman, having had foresight and super-speed enough to snatch away his beer (Old Peculiar) before the tome had touched down, eyed its cover. "It isn't from my universe, unless the new owner has done another retcon. And if it has anything to do with that idiot in the black suit and chains and billowing cape, I shall studiously ignore it. Want nothing to do with him."

Grayshirt, the business-suited, muffler-masked defender of Indigo City, set his cane aside and reached out a gloved hand for its cover. "Only one way to find out, Double M. Let's open it and check the front page. Maybe even see if it's got a table of contents."

Promethea grabbed his wrist with her Hy-Brasilian strength and fingers. "Hold, friend Grayshirt. Our Canon run may be fairly new. But one thing have I learned: if you want a long run, watch out when opening books of Power."

Jack B. Quick, a bespectacled kid sitting on a telephone book and nursing a Great Shake, widened his eyes. "Great Squabblies! We may be in the presence of the fabled Necrocomicon! I've just gotta see the copyright date. First editions are worth something!"

The Cobweb, the famed half-naked lady detective, took the long cigarette and longer cigarette holder out of her mouth and blew smoke in Jack's eyes. "Ease up, small fry. If anybody's going to open that book, it's going to be one of the Big Boys. Get back to your milkshake."

"Aw," pouted Jack. "I'm gonna go back home and merge my dad's and Farmer Stone's lots together to test the Unified Field Theory."

Tom Strong, as beefy-looking as Supreme but with less than half the super-powers (in fact, none at all, unless you counted his superior intellect and the great strength developed by heavy-gravity enviro...ahh, go buy the book already), put in his two cents. "I concur with the Cobweb, brethren. Even in this place, the library service doesn't drop books willy-nilly out of space warps. I vote that Supreme, Suprema, Promethea, and Miracleman should decide which of them should open the book."

"All well 'n' good, ol' pals," said First American, who was already into his fifth fifth of the night (or perhaps the hour). "But shtill...I'd feel a whole lot better if...if..."

U.S. Angel, propping him up, said, "What First is trying to say is that we should be cautious. See if there's an author listed on the side, and if his name is Al-Hazred, don't try to open it."

"Shomethin' like 'at," allowed First American, then flopped his head to the side and snored.

"Gee," opined Jack B. Quick. "What a role model."

"Golly," said Suprema. "Should we go eeny meenie miney moe, or is that politically correct anymore? Or we could do paper, rock, scissors. Or maybe..."

"We'll figure something out, dear," Promethea assured her, laying a kindly hand on her shoulder. "We always do."

"Oh, I wouldn't bother," announced Supreme, tossing aside the cheesed-up rag with such a velocity that it vaporized before it went six feet. "You see, I've already recognized the book."

"Huh?" said everyone else, as one. Then Suprema added, "Hey, you're right, Supreme. I've recognized it too!"

Supreme hefted the weighty volume in one hand as he spoke. "This is the Book Of Mercury, within which the very words of all our existence are written. By cancelling out half a word, or more, or writing over them, anyone can chance his destiny, or the destiny of the world. Indeed, in my universe, that's just what happened, and it took quite a bit of doing to set things right. You can read all about it in JUDGMENT DAY, the mini-series."

Miracleman closed his eyes and put a hand to his brow. "That's right. Do anything to remind me that YOU still have a series."

U.S. Angel gave him a sympathetic look. "Maybe we can sub-let to you, Mr. Miracleman. I'll speak to First when he wakes up."

Grayshirt asked, "Why, of all places, has it turned up here? Is it a plot of the Tempus Fugitive? Or the Warp Factor Six?"

"We'll never know," said Supreme, "unless I look."

So he opened the book's cover, and a sheet of paper fell out. It fluttered to the tabletop. "Ah," said Supreme, knowingly, even though he didn't know.

"Ah what, big boy?" asked the Cobweb. "Be a little more specific with your ahs."

Tom Strong carefully picked up the page with his great, brown-gloved hand. "It seems to be a list of fanfic stories," he said. "In the Mature category. Somebody please send Jack away from the table. He's too young for this."

Suprema covered Jack's ears. "Go ahead, Tom. I think it'll be all right."

"Very well, then," said the hero of Attabar Teru. "In this category, the contestants are--"

"Wait!" Grayshirt protested. "What about the book itself?"

Obligingly, the spacewarp reopened above them, and the book was sucked up into it again with the force of a thousand department store pneumatic tubes.

U.S. Angel, still propping up First American, looked at Grayshirt. "Next question?"

Tom Strong cleared his throat. "As I was saying. In this category, the contestants are--"

"Just a minute, just a minute," said Suprema, taking one hand away from Jack's ear to stop him. "Aren't we supposed to do the disclaimer thingie right here, before we go any further?"

Promethea sighed. "Yes, dear, I suppose we should. I'll go first. My name is Promethea, and Grayshirt, First American, U.S. Angel, Tom Strong, Jack B. Quick and I are all property of America's Best Comics."

Supreme began, "Hi. I'm Supreme, and--"

"Oh, please let me do it, cousin, please?"

Supreme sighed, and made a helpless gesture to Suprema. She faced the fourth wall, smiled, and waved. "Hello, there. My name is Suprema, and Supreme and I are copyright Awesome Entertainment, and, gosh, we're awfully happy to be here." She blew the wall a kiss.

Miracleman coughed. "I suppose that leaves me. Miracleman's the name. I used to be copyright by Mick Anglo, then I was copyright by Eclipse Comics, now I'm copyright Todd McFarlane, and PLEASE tell him to get me back in my own title before long. I've got talent, I tell you. I do."

Tom Strong began again. "The contestants are--"

"Just a moment, dearie," said Cobweb, kicking him under the table. "Two things remain. First, our common denominator. Hello, Alan! Alan Moore! Are you out there? Say hi or wave if you're out there, Alan. I suppose he's not out there."

"What's the other thing?" asked Suprema.

Promethea said, "No money is being made from this fic, no infringement is intended."

Tom Strong paused and looked at his tablemates. "Are we all quite finished, now?"

Supreme stretched back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. "Go ahead, son. You've got the floor."

"Well, then," said Tom, and, seeing no one was about to interrupt him again, went on. "In the category of Mature fanfic, the contestants are...

"'X-Manson,' by Dr. Benway.

[Caption: Detective Dwight Hammer, Westchester CountyPolice] DH: Robert Drake's body was one of the six we found in the lake. It'd been in there a good ten years at least. It was wrapped in a canvas tent and chains, then they weighted it down with concrete blocks. The divers missed it, and we only found it when we started dragging the lake. [Shot of W Drake] WD: Would living with me have been as bad as that?

"'Bodies Of Water,' by J.B. McDonald.

Bobby's smile spread slowly across his face, lighting his eyes with a wicked gleam. Consideringly, he walked around the edge of the wall, head cocked, one hand trailing along the paint. Finally he stopped where he thought the top of the shower might be, and placed both hands flat on the wall. He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the stucco, and concentrated. There -- beneath the drywall, before the tiles. Pipes were running, carrying an absence of Cold, which meant heat. Water pipes. Carrying hot water. To the shower. Bobby's slow, wicked smile returned, and he slowly started to chill not the water itself, but the pipes. A satisfying yowl echoed from the bathroom, and a moment later a dripping wet Jamie raced out, towel wrapped tightly around his waist. Bobby grinned smugly and tried to keep his eyes on Jamie's face as he leaned a shoulder against the wall, laying his arms over his chest and crossing his ankles nonchalantly. "Hi." A narrow, well-muscled chest shuddered outward, then collapsed as Jamie took a deep breath. "I'm gonna kill you for that."

"'Libertad,' by Tangerine.

Gaveedra took a harsh breath through clenched teeth, scraping his fingernails against his flesh to bring the pain to places that could be seen. "And you will force me to speak to you? Have you not already done enough to me that you will strip me of my will? I took that from Mojo. You are unwise to think I will take it from you, too." And the constraint against his body seemed to lift and vanish into thin air. Gaveedra let go of his arm and took a step then another before he was walking, walking away, running away, no difference, he realised, he was a coward now but he could accept that, had to accept the reality instead of the dream. Because it scared him to realise he had no problem with the idea of killing Cable.

"'The Sum Of Zero,' by Dex."

Supreme almost leaped from his chair. "What did you say? What was that name?"

Cobweb crossed her legs on top of the table. "Relax, big guy. He said Dex, not Dax."

"Oh." Embarrassed, Supreme subsided.

The Number blinked, staring into space, then turned back to the grinder. He switched it on again and studied the wheel turning to a blur as it came up to speed. He went back to his work, watching the razor edge magically becoming mirror bright between his fingers, seeing the faded blankets under his body and hearing the creak of the fan past the blood rushing in his ears. The words from the fairy tale his mother used to speak when they lay together, him a prisoner of circumstance and age, came unbidden to his lips. "Toil and spin, toil and spin, my name is Rumplestiltskin. Toil and spin, toil and spin." The faded blankets. The smell of Mother's breath and the feel of her hands. The creak of the fan on the ceiling. The spinning wheels, counting each traverse, counting each movement, counting each dust mote in the air. Toil and spin, like a prayer never answered. Until now. Straw into gold, toil and spin. Steel into death.

"And 'Quiet Waters,' by, again, J.B. McDonald."

The air smelled like newly turned earth, and scorched grass, and human flesh. Like blood and death and twisted metal. Antiseptic and fear and that sick tang that came with gas. And sweat; human sweat from the crush of bodies behind the police barrier. The noise rivaled the smell, that scent that would always be associated with disaster. There was wailing and crying and someone to the right sobbed hysterically. Cameras flashed, recording the devastation and human pain for others to gawk over and pity, saying things like "It was their time" and "Wasn't that a tragedy?" The sound of shredding metal, a horrible cry as if the plane itself was in such great pain it couldn't be contained within that massive shell, still seemed to hang in the air, though no metal moved. There was shouting and orders and wailing sirens, crashing instruments and plastic rattling, and under that the sound of zippers sliding up over dead bodies. The air tasted of death. The metallic tang of blood seemed to ooze into every pore, until Jamie couldn't be free of it. A breath shuddered into his lungs -- he felt so COLD -- and carried the taste of rot and fear and panic. This is my fault. I should have gone with him.

"Gosh, that J.B. got nominated twice," said Suprema. "She must really be good."

"Well, Tom?" asked Promethea.

The massive man looked up from the paper. "Well, what?"

"Well, isn't there a winner listed on the sheet?"

Tom Strong scanned the page again, up and down, checking for invisible ink, poked-out dots to simulate braille, oddly-slanted letters, and the like. He looked up again. "Apparently not."

"What do we have to do around here," groused Miracleman, a hand on his lip. "Ask for the envelope?"

As if in answer, a small space-warp appeared above them and a small white envelope fluttered through the opening.

"It's an omen," offered Supreme, cynically.

Promethea snatched the envelope from the air, slit it with her perfect fingernails, blew in it, and extracted the winner's name.

"The winner is...'X-Manson,' by Dr. Benway! It says here 'a harrowing and well-written tale of the X-Men from a quite horrific viewpoint, done in the inimitable Benway style, and well worthy of winning this year's award in this category.' Okay."

"Congratulations, Benway, whomever you are," offered Greyshirt. "And if you can win in a field like Mature, you're welcome to come visit Indigo City whenever you like and visit some of our...finer alleyways."

U.S. Angel said, "Well, can we let somebody else have the ball now? We're all done here, aren't we? I want to get this loser home and maybe come back."

"All we have to do is announce the next category, which is...the Adult Awards," said Tom.

"I WANNA SEE!" cried Jack B. Quick.

"Shut up, Jack," said Suprema, discreetly covering his eyes and ears.

And the spotlight moved on...

Young Justice headquarters, located in the former Justice League base, was at once the most sophisticated monitoring station and response direction center this side of the Watchtower and the coolest hangout a group of teens could hope for. From the indoor swimming pool (well, subterranean lake anyway) to the massive sound-system (which was not, in its design, meant for the bone-shattering riffs of Korn) their HQ had it all.

And yet, despite the numerous opportunities for entertainment, Robin sat at the monitoring station with a look of intensity that belied his years. His fingers were steepled against his upper lip in a manner that suggested deep thought. Everything, from the set of his shoulders to his measured breathing indicated that he was brooding.

"Oh, jeez, Kon! Tim's Batmanning again!" Bart Allen complained.

Superboy groaned dramatically from the other room. "Again? What is it now?"

Impulse zipped around the boy wonder like a gnat. "Dunno... From the look of it, either Doomsday's back or the store is out of 'Chunky Munky' ice cream again."

Tim Drake refused to be distracted by Bart's chattering. He keyed in a secret code and read with interest the data that the computer spat out.

Superboy sauntered in, soaking wet and stripped to the waist. "Anybody seen my shirt?"

"It's in the wash getting that weird stain out, remember?" Robin informed him patiently.

"No, the other one...my good one..."

"Well, I certainly wouldn't know..." Bart said innocently, casting furtive glances at the boy of steel. "Why are you dripping wet?"

"'Cause there's no towels either," Kon complained. "I know there was some in the cabinet when I went in the shower..."

"Huh, imagine that..." Bart commented.

Superboy gave him a suspicious look. "You wouldn't possibly have..."

"Me? No, it's Cass who would want you to be running around half naked and soaking wet..." Bart burst out, huge eyes filled with innocence.

Superboy's eyes narrowed.

"Listen up, guys, we've got an assignment," Robin interrupted.

"Do you have to call it an assignment?" Kon whined. "Sounds like something we'd get stuck doing for sch