Sweeping open the door for Cassie Cantrall and Hank McCoy, the Bouncer first noticed the signs of trouble. The crowd had begun to surge like salmon in a mating run, flinging themselves at the barriers preventing them from getting to the vehicles. With a casual swipe of one massive hand, the Bouncer "removed" the few overly rambunctious fictives from the carpet and cleared the path of the carriage which had arrived. Fictives swarmed at it, mobbing the occupants. With a cross between a laugh and a sigh, Monet leaped from the driver's chair and began throwing them every which way, clearing her charge of fan. The Bouncer forced everyone back with a final growl, and opened the carriage door.

Falstaff stepped jauntily from it, clad in a suit so pristine white it was almost blinding. He gave a quick twirl of his ivory-tipped cane and extended an arm to help his fiancee down. If Falstaff was dressed to the nines, then Celendra had contrived to add an extra digit, forcing the Bouncer to strain against the sudden rush by overwhelmed fans and fictives.

"Falstaff, would you get inside? This bloody mob won't hold back much longer!" the Bouncer snarled between clenched teeth. An overly excited Skin fictive was sent sailing back over the crowd with one swipe of the Bouncer's arm.

"Wait, where's Dex?" Celendra said, casting about for her other escort. It was then people began to notice the line being cleared through the crowd, mumbled "excuse me"s and "get the hell out of the way"s accompanied with the occasional body being flung out of it's path. Quickly, the crowd parted, coughing up an irritated Kai holding a bleary-looking Dex up by the collar.

"Dex?"

"Could be..." Dex muttered. Kai rolled her eyes.

"Found him down at the Mhairie Hut, playing 'Pickle Me Liver' with Abyss again." Kai shook him by the collar like a dishrag. "But Sunny Jim is gonna sober up real quick, isn't he!"

Dex winced as Kai yelled in his ear. "Keep shaking me and I might have to mess up your nice shoes, Kai. That is your only dress, right?" A nasty tone in his voice.

"Yeah, Logan bought it for me. Want to explain the mess to him?"

"Irk."

"Thought not."

"I just get no respect," Dex muttered. He spun slowly in Kai's grip, a Dazzler fictive coming into view. "Hey good-lookin'--"

Celendra put her hand over his mouth and firmly edged all four of them inside. Dex regained his feet, and after a threatening glare, Kai let him go. Dex gave the finger to her retreating back as he was dragged into the lobby of the Café.

Holding to the Oscar-style performances demanded of awards ceremonies, the Café had been gilded, decorated, spritzed, sparkled, adorned, and accessorized to its utmost capacity. Lines of tiny white lights outlined the rafters in cheery, brilliant tracery. Two giant mock "Creative Licence" statues flanked the main stage, expanded to fill the overload of guests this year. A massive viewscreen had been lowered to accommodate the mass of people in the Café -- a raucous congo line already wove between tables, hopping, dance-kicking, and shimmying like a centipede under the influence of illicit substances. All...almost all...its members wore identical sky blue t-shirts which featured fuzzy 3-D patches of the faces of Grover, Cookie Monster, Kurt Wagner and Hank McCoy. The Blue Believers had forethoughtedly booked their own table for the event and were prepared to party like it was 1999. Which it was.

While Dex and Falstaff escorted Celendra to her table and dashed off for their opening positions, Kielle sat and adjusted her headset for the twentieth time of the evening. Only the connection to the tech board and her notepad served as protection against total chaos.

"Kai just did what to Poi Lass's Gambit? Well, what if you used some cooking oil to try and slip him out? Really? That far in the wall? Ouch..." Kielle clicked off and rolled her eyes. Things had already hit bottom, and were now in the process of digging themselves deeper.

"Begin rolling the Falstaff clip, cue Mitai, Cats Laughin', Mucous Membrane and the rest of the band to the pit to get set up, and somebody find me a coffee the size of Galactus's sinuses." Kielle slapped her clipboard across the back of a slow-moving Nightwing fictive. "And stop trying to pick up on Tap!" Kielle stormed out to the lighting booth, ignoring the two figures lounging up in the presenters' booth.

"I would never let my friends pull that kind of shit with me. If any of them tried, I'd be like 'Hey! You! You stupid limey bitches! You'll do what I say or I'll...I'll kick you right in the nuts!'"

"Um, somehow I doubt that will be very effective."

"Once, I had the ability to make words dance and sing to my wildest fancies...now, my pages are a desert. The Arleccino languishes, and now...they wish me to host an awards show." Falstaff gestured vaguely about with one hand, as if trying to snatch the ideas from the air.

"Hmm...and how long have you been engaging in 'nocturnal' activities?" Samson asked.

"I go to Virginia in June--" Falstaff squirmed uncomfortably on the couch.

"No, I was referring to the various choices of fan-fiction." Samson flipped open a heavy leather binder. "Here you list Ms. Nolan, Luba Kmetyk, DarkRiver, and--"

"--Lady Amethyst downloads," they both finished in unison, Falstaff colouring. "But, it's never affected me before."

"It happens." Doc Samson began rummaging around his cluttered office, finally coming up with a bracelet. "I have this charm. Write your name on a piece of paper and place it into the mouth of the bracelet. Then, put it on the wrist of the girl who truly inspires you, and have her watch you during this awards show. Then, the words will flow like water again."

"Greetings all. And welcome to -- wait! Where is Dex?" Falstaff peered off stage and then turned back. "I guess Abyss went to go pick him up. Where could they be?" Falstaff grinned and stepped out of the way of the screen as the clip started.

Then it was quiet again. My attorney had taken his shirt off and was pouring Guinness on his chest to facilitate the tanning process. "What the hell are you yelling about?" he muttered, staring up at the sun with his eyes closed and covered with wraparound Spanish shades. His damn bunny slippers sported identical eyewear.

"Never mind," I said. "It's your turn to surf." I hit the disconnect and aimed the Great Red Shark toward the shoulder of the netlink. No point mentioning the posts, I thought. The poor bastard would see them soon enough.

The Scribe had given us money for traveling expenses, most of it already spent on extremely dangerous fics and alcohol. We had two bags of betas, seventy-five posts from the RR board, five sheets of erotic T-Catt art, a review half done on Cable pieces, and a whole newsgroup full of posted uppers, downers, screamers, laughers...and also a quart of scotch, a quart of rye, a case of Sleemens, a pint of Guinness, and two dozen random shooters.

All this had been rounded up the morning of, in a frenzy of high-speed driving all over Subreality. Not that we needed all of that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious fic collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.

The other thing that really worried me was the Guinness. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a man in the depths of a Guinness binge. And I knew we'd be getting into that rotten stuff pretty soon.

My attorney saw the hitchhiker long before I did. "Let's give this boy a lift," he said, and before I could mount any argument he was stopped and this poor Hokie kid was running up to the car with a big grin on his face, saying, "Hot damn! I never rode in a convertible before!"

"Is that right?" I said. "Well, I guess you're about ready, eh?"

The kid nodded eagerly as we roared off.

"We're your friends," said my attorney. "We're not like the others."

*O Christ,* I thought, *he's gone around the bend.* "No more of that talk," I said sharply. "Or I'll put the leeches to you!" He grinned, seeming to understand. Luckily, the static in the car was so awful -- between the downloads and the uploads and the MP3's -- that the kid in the back seat couldn't hear a word that we were saying. Or could he?

How long can we maintain? I wondered. How long before one of us starts raving and jabbering at the boy? What will he think then? This same lonely desert was the last known location of Bum on her "Field Trip." Will he make that grim connection when my attorney starts screaming about Willey and Fanatic posting around the car? If so -- well, we'll just have to cut his head off and feed him to the slippers. Because it goes without saying that we can't just turn him loose. He'll report us at once to some kind of net nanny nazi moral enforcement agency, and they'll run us down like dogs.

Ellis! Did I say that? Or just think it? Was I posting? Did they hear me? I glanced over at my attorney, but he seemed oblivious -- watching the road, driving our Great Red Shark along.

Maybe I'd better have a chat with this boy, I thought. Perhaps if I explain things, he'll rest easy.

Of course. I leaned around in the seat and gave him a fine big smile...admiring the shape of his skull.

"By the way," I said. "There's one thing you should probably understand."

He nodded.

"I want you to know that we're on our way to the Café to find the Subreality Dream." I smiled. "That's why we rented this car. It was the only way to do it. Can you grasp that?"

He nodded again, but his eyes were nervous.

"I want you to have all the background," I said. "Because this is a very dangerous assignment -- with overtones of extreme personal danger... Hell, I forgot all about the beer; you want one?"

He shook his head.

"How about some Guinness?"

"What?"

"Never mind. I want you to understand that this man at the wheel is my attorney! He's not just some drunk I found on the Strip. Shit, look at him! He doesn't look like you or me, right? That's because he's a foreigner. I think he's probably from Ottawa. But it doesn't matter, does it? Are you prejudiced?"

"Oh hell no!" he blurted.

"I didn't think so," I said. "Because in spite of his race, this man is extremely valuable to me." I glanced over at my attorney, but his mind was somewhere else. "This is important goddamnit!"

Our vibrations were getting nasty -- but why? I was puzzled, frustrated. Was there no communication in this car? Had we deteriorated to the level of Marvel editors?

My attorney came to sudden life at the wheel. "Volume! Clarity! Bass! We must have bass!" he screamed.

I turned the radio and tape player up full bore. "You scurvy shyster bastard," I said. "Watch your language! You're talking to a near doctor of journalism!"

My attorney hunched around to face the hitchhiker. "The truth is we're going to the Café to croak a flamer named Rude John. I've known him for years, but he flamed one of my stories -- and you know what that means. I'll tear out his lungs!"

"And make him eat them!" I blurted. "That bastard won't get away with this! What's wrong in this country when a scumsucker like him can get away with attacking a near doctor of Journalism?"

Nobody answered. My attorney was cracking another Guinness open and the kid was climbing out of the back seat, scrambling down the trunk lid. "Thanks for the ride," he yelled, running back towards CFAN.

"Wait a minute!" I yelled. "Come back and get a beer."

"Abyss' idea?" Falstaff said wryly.

"Abyss' idea," Dex confirmed and smiled.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Second Annual Comic Book Fan Fiction Awards! Yes, the madness continues with a new generation of fan fiction."

"And we'll be handing out those Silver Surfer-esque statues all night to the lucky writers." Falstaff held up one of the awards, to the applause of the audience.

"Tonight, you have the two of us as your guides into the best of fan fiction, with laughs, sobs and every emotion inbetween on the menu."

"And, in place of us, there's always the buffet between awards."

"Don't give them ideas."

"Folks, it's time to get this show started!" Falstaff waved his arms while Dex mimed a golf swing behind him. The lights flashed as the music swelled, and the CBFFAs began...

FANFIC HALL OF FAME
By Celendra (greeneyedgypsy@usa.net)

"Careful. You don't want to wake her up." Ever tried to move a Feral fictive who's asleep in front of the stage entrance without getting disemboweled? Or being sent to fish a drunken Apocalypse out of the punch bowl while he keeps babbling that the punch is one of the Strong and will survive? Or, my personal favorite, breaking up the constant old Cyke fic versus new Cyke fic fights in the parking lot? I'll tell you, the new boys hate the old ones, and I can't blame them. I'm the one who had to listen to one angst about the colour of the bar in lieu of a legitimate personal crisis. Welcome to my soddin' life.

But, then again. When you're one of the invisibles, you take what work you can get.

No, don't look at me like that. Invisibles, with a small 'i'. Not those bizarre English gits who wander around Subreality with their knickers off.

Nope, one of the small, tiny little walk-on characters with a name only if we are very lucky. Hapless creations of convenience, there to push a story in a direction and then get discarded.

See, it's not so bad for the professionals. For example, there are about twenty cops who get pretty regular work. Most of it's being knocked about by a super-whatever or getting killed in gory ways, but it pays the bills, you know. Or you get the secretaries, FBI's, doctors, and others who are very specialized who have no real problem finding work. However, guys like me have it a little more difficult.

So, like everything, it's all Kielle's fault how it started.

See, I don't know if you would remember, but she wrote in a group of maintenance men in the airport during "No Way Up." I got another cameo as an FBI agent at the end of the story, but not enough to get in with the specialists. Since then, it's been bouncing around from one fic to the next, trying to make a living. A couple of shots with "Neon Hearts," one of the club dancers in "All My Life," it goes on. Little bits here and there, you know. So yesterday, the Manager comes down to the pub and asked a bunch of us if we want a night of work. The big writers and fic are having their party, s/he says. Big chance for exposure, s/he says. Maybe catch a writer and get into the bigs, s/he implies.

Only writer I've met tonight was that Foster guy, and that was to drag his carcass out of the head and sponge him down. Frankly, this sucks.

There go the lights, and here comes the awards. I somehow can contain the excitement, you know. Falstaff and Dex get up on the stage, looking about. Falstaff is not a bad guy. We minors tend to do well under his hand. Hell, the best plumber in Subreality is his creation. He's dressed up in his usual Victorian tuxedo fare, all in brilliant white. Kinda like a larger Ricardo Montabond. Dex, on the other hand, is less gentle with us. There's a whole room of traumatized Hellfire Club employees in our bar. The skinny kid is dressed all in black, fitting his "Satan" looks. Considering that he and Falstaff are close in height, standing together they look kind of like a two-toned number ten.

"Ladies and gentlemen--"

"Especially ladies."

"Be quiet, Dex. As I was saying, we'd like to introduce you to the presenters for the FanFiction Hall of Fame for Story. From Min's 'Vicky's Diaries,' Miss Victoria Frost-Drake." All around me, people start cheering and hooting as the girl walks on stage. She must have inherited her father's eyes and her mother's posture.

"And, from the halls of Kaylee/Jaya's archive, her very own Scott Summers from 'Shades of Red.'" And one of the new Cykes steps on stage. He looks pretty confident, but those looks he keeps shootin' Logan and Jean fictives is not friendly. We've got a poll going to see when he cracks.

"Good evening," Vicky starts, all cultured tones and clipped words. "We'd like to say what an honour it is to have been chosen to present these awards. Fan fiction is a labour of love, of creativity, and sometimes of need. It has no advertising, no budget, no money behind it. The only true measure of a piece is its skill."

"Skill is why these stories have been selected," Scott said, his own voice tight. "Stories which have carved a place out from their fellows based on the strength of the ideas behind them. Those stories form the backbone of fan fiction, the classics and the must-reads in our community."

"And the nominees are..." Victoria raised the envelope, and a curse from backstage told the rest of us that Chas has forgotten to lower the screen. Good. I nearly had his part in "Stories Heard Down At The Pub." Wanker.

"Kid Dynamo. Writer: Connie Hirsch."

"Vertigo: No Way Up. Writer: Kelly 'Kielle' Newcomb."

"Blind Sight. Writer: Valerie Jones."

"Devil's Due. Writer: Laersyn."

"There are some scenes in that I really like," Scott muttered. Vicky put a warning hand on his arm.

"Scott..."

"Just Lucky I Guess. Writer: DuAnn Cowart." Great. A burst of X-Forcers goes nuts beside me and I'm stuck wearing a Kontiki tray, three martinis and a Meltdown fictive.

"The Mutants Of Bucktown. Writer: David J. Warner."

"Neon Hearts. Writer: Susan 'Neon Nurse' Crites."

"Thick As Thieves. Writers: Valerie Jones and Lori McDonald."

"Jean And Me. Writer: David J. Warner."

The lights came back on, and the screen drunkenly wobbled back to the ceiling. Everyone took a moment to re-adjust to the lights, and loud cheers for the crowd's favourites started. Me? I was headed for the back to see if I could shift a snoring Sabretooth off of the ballot box. I hate my job. Behind me, the presenters stepped back on stage.

"Now, before we do anything, we have a special 'Classic' award for Connie Hirsch's 'Kid Dynamo.' Winner of this award last year, she again accumulated enough votes to merit a special award to the Fan Fiction Hall of Fame. 'Kid Dynamo' and Connie Hirsch." A huge swell of applause broke out as a copy of the story and picture of the writer were hung on a wall of the Café.

"And this year's winners are..." Victoria opened the envelope and passed it to Scott.

"Vertigo: No Way Up. Writer: Kielle."

"Neon Hearts. Writer: Susan 'Neon Nurse' Crites."

"And Jean and Me. Writer: David J. Warner."

Thunderous applause swelled as Misfire, Cassie Cantrell, and Joey Bilotti came on to stage to accept the awards from their writers. Victoria Frost-Drake and Scott Summer gave a brief bow and exited stage left as Dex and Falstaff returned. I watched Dex sneak a quick look over at where Kielle, the AT Monet and I were trying to drag a ton of Creed off of the damn awards ballot box.

"And our next presenters will be coming up momentarily. Just a slight delay. Falstaff, how about that nun joke?" Dex ad-libed and Falstaff's face went white.

The Café and Subreality are Kielle's, as is the minor fictive.
Victoria Frost-Drake is Min's from "Vicky's Diaries"
Scott Summer is from Kaylee's "Shades of Red"
Monet is Falstaff's from his "Arleccino Timeline"
Chas is Phil Foster's from "Stories Heard Down At The Pub"
All writers are their own, and all other characters belong to Marvel Comics.
I belong to a little red-headed girl in London. Leave me be...

WRITER HALL OF FAME
By Dex (dexf@netrover.com)

"Fadeout the lights," Kielle muttered into her headset. "Double-check the sound...dead on the left? Get Winky off the left speaker...yup. All clear. Cue Dex and 'Staff, bring up the blue lights..."

"Female, male and neuter entities," Eric stumbled, glancing puzzledly at the last entry, "it gives me *great* pleasure to present the lady who is presenting the Creative License for the Writer Hall of Fame..."

Bryant smiled smoothly and several women in the audience swooned dramatically into their drinks. "Presenting that woman who's always popular at frat-houses and who was voted 'Most Likely To Be Employed To Jump Out Of A Hollow Cake,' Celendra!"

Dex gave her that heart-stopping smug grin and a hug after holding her at arms length for a second and nodding in roguish approval, slipping her the envelope with the results. Stepping to the blushing man beside him, Celendra did something completely characteristic.

Wrapping her arms around Falstaff, she leaned in to give him a kiss not recognized as legal in any country excepting Canada. Letting him go and giving him a small push towards his fellow host, who chuckled and made sure he didn't fall, Celendra stepped up to the podium. Taking a deep breath, she parted her lips and finished her entrance.

"GRRRRRRRRRRRREETINGS, SUBREALITY!" she roared, topping the boisterous crowd's howling. "It's been a year since I last stood before you; and the more things change, eh?"

"Susan Crites is well-known, not only for her epic 'Neon Hearts,' but also for being the best ListMom on the 'Net." Celendra applauded, together with all of the other OTLers. "Brava, Nurse, and thank you for Cassie and Hank; after all, who deserves love more than our favorite Cookie Monster impersonator?

"Indigo, maintainer of the massively informative IndigoSky.Net, which contains some of the most wonderful photos of the 'regular Joe/Jane' writers on the web, is also a Mistress of Storytelling. I have a special place in my heart for her recent 'The Oak and the Sassafras,' for obvious reasons, but her other triumphs include 'Crimes Of The Heart,' 'A Pound Of Flesh,' and 'A Different World.'

"We all know Alara Rogers for her stunningly accurate portrayals of Erik Magnus Lensherr, Magneto, as well as her remarkable attention to historical detail. I love her for both. She is the author of classic fanfiction such as 'Heart's Desire,' 'Habits' and 'PowderKeg,'" smiled Celendra as the every incarnation of Herr Lensherr present stood and applauded Alara, who stood momentarily.

"Amanda Sichter manages to make me leap over all of the other mail in my Inbox every time. I can't wait to see what new evil she has managed to churn out. Although there have been the occasional lighter pieces, for the most part, Amanda is a Writer who manages to leave you with a feeling that it is significantly harder to breathe after you read her work."

Celendra delicately cleared her throat and shuffled the list.

"Ah, yes. Dex. Bryant Telfer is the only man who can make me _like_ Cyclops for any amount of time. He makes into human beings characters I never saw as anything more then simulacrums in the hands of other Writers. He can make me laugh, as in 'Home Sweet Home' or rage, with his 'White Queen Arc.' We are all privileged to read his work."

"Luba Kmetyk is another writer most famous for doing justice to characters who very seldom are given their due. We all know of Pryde&Wisdom and of Luba's famous, or infamous," she winked, "series 'Idylls Of The Cat,' which, while being a marvelously accurate erotic work, is also a true *story*, intertwined with Hellblazer, the X-Files and many odd characters in complete believability. The characters breathe and Kitty and Pete's fledgling relationship is related in almost painful detail. Luba is a fabulous writer and the patron Saint of Kitty and Pete." As wryly grinning Wisdoms looked proudly at beaming Prydes, Luba took her bow.

"Ah, how can we leave out the most prehensiley-toed, Guiness-guzzling writer of them all? Abyss is a Writer whose scope is beyond imagination. With his 'Pale Reign Over Geshem' he shows us how much an epic can encompass. He has made us laugh with his 'AbyssSALUTS,' his 'Sinister' antics and his Subreality mayhem. With his new foray 'SFX,' he surprises us all over again."

"In third place...Abyss," she cheered as the room erupted into applause and Abyss, a mug in each hand, was thrown bodily onto the stage to receive a steamy kiss from Celendra and a Creative License. As Abyss leaped offstage to celebrate, Celendra turned back to the podium.

"In second place...Amanda Sichter!!"

Amanda made her way regally to the stage, trading hugs with Celendra and thanking the audience for her award.

"And," Celendra smiled as the drum roll increased, "In first place for this year's Writer Hall of Fame...Bryant Telfer!"

A surprised looking Dex walked onto stage and received his barely-legal smooch and Creative License with equal aplomb.

"Well...given the competition I wasn't expecting first place. Thank you all and thanks to Kielle, for putting these awards together. Thank you, Subreality!"

MOST IMPROVED WRITER
By Denise Keppel (dkeppel@yahoo.com)

Out of the audience, two fics rose and made their way up to the podium. One, a man that looked like Emma Frost's brother, was six foot six, if not taller. The female, also blonde haired and blue eyed, was lucky to be five feet tall with heels.

"Ah'd like ta say it was an honor jist ta be--" Li'l Bit started looking at her note cards. "Sorry, y'all, wrong speech." She giggled and flipped some of her long blond hair over her left shoulder and flipped deeper in the pile of cards. "Ah'd be honored ta sing -- again wrong award show... What can Ah say, Ah'm a blond?" She looked around the audience and gulped, knowing that somehow, she had messed up.

"The most improved writer award," Freeze prompted.

"Ah yes..." Li'l Bit dug around in her stack of note cards before coming to set she needed. She tore the rubber band off of them and watched them flutter to the floor almost simultaneously. Bending, she picked up the cards and managed to show off her butt at the same time. A deadly glare from several Sams in the audience keep the males quiet.

"Ab lib," Freeze hissed. Li'l Bit stood up directly over the air vent and accidently did her best Marilyn Monroe impression, drawing cat-calls from a couple of the more drunk fics, who were not going to be silenced again.

"Ah heard that Rogue!" Li'l Bit shouted. "If Ah was agoin' ta get that kind of attention from a female, why couldn't it be Dani?" Blushing as she realized what she said, she tried to recover. "That way Ah could tape ‘em and make Samy one happy guy... Yeah, that's what Ah meant. And she has such a nice name..."

"Present the award," Freeze ordered her.

Drawing on memory, Li'l Bit started her speech. "How does one improve their writin' abilities? Start with one ittsy-bittsy, teeny-weenie li'l old thang -- proofread, proofread, proofread, and then proofread again."

"I thought you'd only had to say something twice to drive it home," Freeze commented.

"With this crowd?" Li'l Bit reached out her hand, accidentally-on-purpose pointing at her writer. "Some people need all the reminders they can get." Still looking directly at her writer, she continued, "Spell check and check again and again."

"Is it wise to pick on your writer like that?" Freeze asked, hoping it wasn't. He was silently praying that her writer would get so mad that Li'l Bit would come to a violent end.

"Ah'm based on her little sister," Bit said proudly. "If Ah didn't pick on her, Ah'd be written wrong. And Leary, what would help ya is ta write some more. Writing tends to help writers improve." Grinning because she knew she could get away with it, she decided to continue to roast her writer and her writer's boyfriend.

‘And Grammatik comes free in WordPerfect for a reason. Use it more. For goodness sakes, Word has a grammar checker too... Every good writer should use it. And can we say beta readers? Never can have too many of them." Smiling at the couple, she corrected herself. "Okay, I know about that one. Leary will kill any of Denise's male beta readers."

"Bit--" Freeze prompted.

"And can we say characterization? Gambit will never be a monk or Rahne a stripper. Write those people like they are -- for example, Ah'll nevah be a six foot tall yankee and be muhself--" Freeze saw his chance and grabbed Indigo's labtop computer.

"Ya wouldn't dare!" Li'l Bit spun around on Freeze.

"Then make it snappy," Freeze suggested, his fingers poised over the keyboard.

Discretion would have been the better part of valor, but Bit had never been known for her discretion. "Okay then," she started talking faster. "Leary-- tell us about verb tenses."

"Li'l Bit -- tell us about sweet tea." Leary shot back from his seat. Denise who had buried her face in his shoulder, afraid to look up at the Frankenstein she had created, looked up in horror.

Three things happened in the same second. Li'l Bit was speechless, Leary was slapped, and Freeze grabbed the microphone. "Raven Adams, you are the most improved writer."

Seizing the moment, Raven quickly ran up to the stage to collect her award and ran back to her seat. As soon as the award was removed from the stand, Freeze physically picked up Li'l Bit and removed her from the stage. A voice from over his shoulder called out, "It's Rogue not Rouge! Grey not Gray! And jist give up spelling Moira's last name!"

In the audience, a ficitive Bishop turned to the fictive Pete Wisdom. "Who is that guy?" Bishop had to admire his style.

Pete sighed, knowing perfectly well who Freeze was and hating him for it. "Wait until 'Scaling The Castle' comes out, mate... Just wait." After snubbing out his cigarette, he muttered, "And it bloody well come out soon."

Li'l Bit is one of my fics, very much modeled after my sister, Danielle. Freeze belongs to the joint Leary-Keppel writing team. Indigo's computer belongs to her. Dani Moonstar, if the universe was fair, would belong to Samy but belongs to Marvel. Scaling The Castle is a work in progress from the joint Leary-Keppel writing team.

BEST NEW FEMALE CHARACTER
By Kaylee (skaya@mindspring.com)

All characters/concepts/avatars belong to their respective writers/owners.

Which many a fictive was grateful for.

Dawn -- grinning faintly in memory of last year's awards -- ascended onto the stage with great poise, wings held close against her body to prevent them from being jostled by the occasional fugitive running from enemies or amorous stalkers. A hush fell over the crowd. It lasted a whole two seconds.

"Who is it, Dawn?" called a slim blonde with cat-like eyes and too-sharp-for-lovin' fingernails.

Dawn ignored the question, and then the horde of other questions, with the grace and poise of "the woman who holds the envelope" and therefore "the woman who holds the power." She cleared her throat and tapped the mike. "Testing, testing..."

"We *know* the mike works," called a voice from the orchestra pit. "We've been listening to screams through it all night already."

Dawn flicked a glance down at Jaya Mitai. Impressive powers or no, no one wanted to take on the Woman with the Oboe and the Sheep. No one.

"Moving right along then," she said brightly, tossing back her white-forelocked blue hair. "Let's get on with it. I have the singular honor of presenting tonight -- where's Tapestry?"

"Fetching Dex," Kielle called reassuringly from the side of the stage. Someone coughed conspicuously and was shushed by nearly everyone.

Dawn's eyebrow quirked, but she went on with only a slightly wry twist to her voice. "As I was saying, I'm presenting the award for the Best Original Female Character." The way she pronounced it, the audience could *hear* the caps that some overzealous writer was putting into Dawn's mouth. "New characters catch a lot of flack in the fanfiction genre. How many of us have heard the words 'Mary Sue' muttered at us in that disgusted voice?" Assorted grumbles and shouts from the audience. "Bring a non-canon character into a story, and whammo! It's a Mary Sue."

Someone cleared a throat at the back of the café. Loudly enough to shake the foundations of the building. Dawn blinked against the lights, squinting, until she got a view of who the doubter was.

Then she forced a smile. "Well...everyone but *you,* that is. No one's called *you* a Mary Sue yet."

The _Voice_ boomed out, temporarily silencing even the drunken singing of a broken-hearted Scott fictive. "AND THAT'S A BLOODY GOOD THING, TOO. DOES 'PLAGUE OF LOCUSTS' RING A BELL, HMM?"

Poi and Jaya beamed from their seats proudly. "He gets it from me," Poi whispered loudly.

"Does not!"

"Oh please. You still can't say 'bloody' right."

"I'm _practicing_."

"Ahem," Dawn said, glancing down at her notes. "As I was saying... New characters, male or female but female in particular, aren't usually received too well; so it's quite an honor for both fictive and writer when the readers think of them come voting time. We all love to hear that you guys out there care about us; our lives, our struggles, our--" and she blushed faintly-- "deaths." More calls from the audience, which were ignored with the same poise as before. "We come to you directly from our writers' minds, and it means a lot to all of us to know that you enjoy following each of us.

"So without further ado..." The café fell into tense silence. KayJay gripped Poi's hand tightly enough to hurt. Then, for good measure, she reached to her other side and grabbed Alicia McKenzie's hand, too, knowing that Ali was far too kind and understanding to object to the death-grip. If she'd had a third hand she would've gone for Duey's, as well, and maybe all the rest of the Plotters' hands while she was at it.

"The runners-up for Best Original Female Character are...Cassie Cantell from 'Neon Hearts' by Susan Crites...Celeste from the 'Face The Music' series by Denise Keppel... Summer Ison from 'The Story Without a Title' and 'Shades Of Grey' by Me... and Dana Hawkes from Sarah Crauder's 'Danaverse'!" Cheers and hoots erupted, and there was much clinking of glasses and swigging of mind-altering substances. Dawn, smiling broadly, waited for the chaos to die down a bit before going on.

"Okay...we ready? Okay. Good. Now then, on to the finalists...

"In no particular order, the nominees are: Julianna 'Julia' Selena Shockwave de Santos from the 'Shockwave' series by Sabre AKA Sabia. Roll the clip, please." The café darkened as a screen rolled down.

From 'When Push Comes To Shove':

More cheers and hoots from the audience. A Shatterstar clapped the fictive in question on the back while she grinned broadly at her writer.

"The next nominee...Azimuth from 'Shadow Into Light' and 'Between The Darkness And The Light' by Amanda Sichter."

From "Between the Darkness And The Light":

A Remy gave a sharp wolf-whistle. A random Rogue slapped a gloved hand to the rear of his head sharply, earning her own set of catcalls, boos, and hollers. Azimuth grinned, a hint of wickedness in her eyes as she glanced at her own Remy and sized up the distance to the nearest Rogue.

"Moving right along..." Dawn continued. "Next is Kai from the 'Kai & Logan' series by Kaylee AKA Jaya AKA KayJay AKA SKaya AKA the woman with too many names to bother with."

A brief shriek from Kaylee was silenced by the aforementioned fictive clamping a hand over her writer's mouth. Kai smiled wanly at the looks she received, but made no excuses. Any writer who'd created and cared for an original understood the feeling.

From 'Kai & Maverick: Humanity':

Kai half-grinned at the scene. "Makes perfect sense to me."

"It would," said a gruff voice from the next table. She shot a smile at the dark-eyed Logan seated there, who stood out from the sea of blue-eyed ones rather easily.

"Aaannnd getting back to it... We've got Misfire from 'Vertigo: No Way Up' by Kelly 'Kielle' Newcomb!"

"Misfire?" asked a wide-eyed Kielle. "My gal is up for another award?"

"You betcha." Dawn smiled at Kielle; her creator's fondness for the woman had easily bled over into fictive. Plus, Kielle had written her a happy story. "Like she'd be in the Hall of Fame if everyone didn't love her... And here's a clip."

From 'Vertigo: No Way Up':

Misfire's smile this time was a good bit less wry. "Heh. Who'd have thought?" She nodded at the applause casually.

A steady thump-thump of drums from the orchestra pit cut into the applause and silenced it readily. Dawn dropped her voice dramatically. "In third place...we have a tie here, folks. Let's hear it for Azimuth and Misfire!"

"Woohoo!" shouted a grinning Scribe. "Thanks, everyone!"

Amanda grinned at Azimuth. "Well. I'm not about to argue..."

"In second place..." The drum roll picked up. Dawn grinned. Shockwave critically examined a knife. Kai kept her hand over Kaylee's mouth. Poi and Alicia winced visibly as the writer's grip tightened to almost-unimaginable levels. "...we have a character..." Poi tried to pry her fingers free...failed. "...and this character
iiiissss..."

"OH, DO GET ON WITH IT!" came an impatient _Voice_ from the back of the café. "OH, HELL. NEVER MIND. I ALREADY KNOW. I'M OMNIPOTENT."

A Logan nodded sympathetically. "Still got that problem, huh? Sorry, bub."

"...AS I WAS SAYING... ENOUGH WITH THE MELODRAMA. *I* AM ALLOWED MELODRAMA. NOT YOU PEOPLE. SABIA, CONGRATS; SHOCKWAVE GOT SECOND. KAYLEE, RELEASE THOSE PEOPLE -- THERE'S A GOOD GIRL -- AND BREATHE. KAI GOT THE AWARD. NOW LET'S GET ON WITH THIS. SOME OF US HAVE VERY IMPORTANT THINGS™ TO DO."

"Yeah, right," a Pete put in bitterly, eyeing God warily. "Go knit yer bleedin' sweaters."

Shockwave was grinning at her creator. Sabia tipped back a glass of champagne. Kai slowly, slowly removed her hand from Kaylee's mouth, watching warily. The writer was staring in stunned fascination at the stage, motionless.

"Jaya?" Poi waved a hand in front of her face. "Hello?"

Alicia nudged her. "KayJay. Hey. Wake up."

"Oh no," Poi said worriedly. "Just like the fish..."

"Get her up there," Falstaff whispered loudly from beside the stage.

Duey tapped lightly on Kaylee's head. "I think she's gone into shock. Where's Brooke? She'd know what to do..."

"Eh, I'll accept the award." Kai rolled her shoulders briefly, then strode towards the stage. "It's not like *she* was the one getting shot and stabbed and pummeled..." She swung up onto the stage and walked over to take the mike and award from Dawn with a nod and a smile. "Embers."

"Kai," Dawn said in return, also nodding once and smiling before stepping aside.

Kai held up the award, glancing over the audience and meeting a few gazes here and there. "Thanks." She tossed the mike back to a somewhat startled Dawn and moved to hop down into a crowd that was milling in confusion.

"That was...succinct," Matt Nute observed from his Seraph-shared spot against the wall.

"Yeah," Pebblin agreed as she passed him and worked her way over to congratulate the motionless Kaylee. "Thank God KJ didn't get up there, right?"

"YES. THAT _WAS_ MY DOING, THANK YOU."

"Put a sock in it, Jehovah, and go back to knitting sweaters," Kai called over, thumping the award down on the table in front of Kaylee. With a frown, Kai lightly slapped the young woman's face a few times. "Hey, kid. Snap out of it."

"B-but," Kaylee started dazedly. "But I have a _list_. People to thank. And, and I have to apologize for being so bad about answering feedback. And I have to...to..." Her eyes glazed over as she stared at the award. "Oo, shiny..."

Kai rolled her eyes, turned, and called toward the stage, "She'll live. Get on with the show."

"On with the show!" agreed Dex, appearing from nowhere with Tapestry half-carrying him. He waved an almost empty mug grandly, theatrically, drunkenly. "On -- with -- the -- show!"

And so it went...

BEST NEW MALE CHARACTER
By Dyce (raven@logicworld.com.au)

Kielle hurried down a hall backstage, bouncing off techs, presenters, and several lost fics like a particularly irate pinball. "Kaylee!" she yelled into her headset, banging on a wall for emphasis. "Where are you?! You've got a--"

Kaylee tapped her on the shoulder. "I'm right here. What have I got?"

Kielle spun around. "A segment! I think." She trailed off, looking down at the list on her clipboard. "Yup. A segment."

Kaylee sighed. "I just DID my segment."

"Oh." Kielle squinted at the list of presenters. "Right, so you did. Sorry. Have you seen..." The rather wilted list was smeared with coffee, beer, dirty fingerprints, and an unidentifiable green substance that seemed to be eating through the paper. With some difficulty, the Scribe made out the next name on the list. "Dyce?"

"She was at the Blue Believers table a couple of segments ago," Kaylee said helpfully. Kielle muttered her thanks as she hurried out into the main Café, and over to the large, blue draped table where Susan was happily presiding over an only slightly rowdy group of Blue Believers, as well as a quite astonishing collection of blue comestibles.

"Hi!" A writer whose little smiling-Hank-face nametag read 'Layla Voll' offered the scribe a glassful of blue, fizzing substance with a suspicious=looking purple layer at the bottom. "Want one? No alcohol."

Kielle gave it a deeply dubious look. "What is it?"

"A Bouncing Blue," Susan explained. "Dyce made them. Blue Raspberry Fizz, lemonade, some mixed berry thing, and a layer of red cordial at the bottom. Keep you on your feet right through the awards and after, but don't have more than two, or the top of your head might come off."

Kielle sipped the proffered drink cautiously, and blinked at the almost instantaneous sugar rush. How on earth had the girl managed to put together something so potent without using alcohol OR caffeine? And speaking of Dyce... "Do you know where she is? She's up next, and I can't find her."

A snigger rounded the table, reached Kielle, and faded away without bothering to explain itself. "Backstage," someone said. "She left before the last segment started."

Kielle scowled. "I just CAME from backstage. She's not there."

Susan chuckled. "Did you try the props cupboard? Behind the spare scenery? Under the tables?" Kielle looked blank. "She's got stage fright. Ian went looking for her a few minutes ago."

"Okay, I'll go look." Kielle headed back into the seething morass of bodies that was backstage, muttering complaints about writers who decide to write themselves into a presentation instead of using a fic, and then get stage fright at the last minute and hold everything up.

She followed a trail of pleased looking Beast-fics to a pile of miscellaneous equipment. A harrassed looking Ian, in blue (naturally), was kneeling in front of it. "Sarah?" He coaxed. "Come out, please, love...everyone's waiting for you."

"No," a firm, if muffled voice issued from under the pile. "Everyone will laugh at me."

"No they won't, princess, I promise." Ian reached into the small hole under the stack. "Sarah, come on...everyone's counting on you."

"Send Delphi. Nobody will know she isn't me."

"Her hair's two feet longer than yours," Ian pointed out. "Anyway, she's not speaking to me."

Kielle sighed. "Dyce? If you don't come out here right this second I'm going to...to..." she trailed off lamely. "Do something really horrible to you."

There was a thoughtful pause. "Kielle?"

"Bingo. Now get out onto that stage before I write you up there." Kielle's tone was getting more ominous by the minute. "Naked. Then everyone WILL laugh."

"Oh, all right." Dyce scrambled out from under the pile, brushing dust off her dress. It was tight, dangerously low cut, and of course, considering the crowd she'd arrived with, blue. "I was going to come out anyway."

"Suuure you were." Kielle pointed to the stage. "Out. Now. The crowd's getting restless."

"Crowd?" Dyce whimpered, going even paler. "I don't know if this is a good time to mention it but I'm terrified of crowds."

"It'll be fine. The Blue Believers are right up front. They'll cheer you." Ian pushed her firmly in the direction of the stage. Dyce peeked out from behind the curtain, then ducked back again, looking around frantically.

"Dyyyyce..." Kielle fumed.

"I'm going, I'm going!" Dyce insisted. "I just need something to...aha!"

"Stop that!" A tall young woman with short red hair that contrasted nicely with her blue velvet dress stamped out onto the stage, swinging something long and pink. "Bad Eany! Bad Meany!"

The slugs hissed at her. She sighed, and held out the pink thing, waving it enticingly. "Come on...you don't want that nasty old podium. Look...giant earthworm!!" Earthworm Jim wriggled, making muffled squeaking noises through the hand over his mouth. There was a slightly horrified silence as the slugs hissed and headed for the proffered treat. Dyce waved him a couple more times, then grinned. "Fetch!"

"HEEEEELP!!" Jim howled, as he sailed over the slugs and into the orchestra pit.

"The earthworm's in the tuba!" somebody in the pit yelled.

Eany and Meany slithered down into the pit, chittering excitedly.

"The slugs are in the tuba!" shouted the same voice, sounding a bit panicky.

Dyce dusted her hands together. "Well, that's solved that--" There was a slightly higher pitched chittering noise, and a couple of faint, furry sounding thuds.

"The slippers are in the tuba!!" The anonymous voice sounded close to hysteria.

Dyce winced. "I hope nobody had a tuba solo planned. Oh well..." She smiled, and took as deep a breath as the tight gown would allow. "Welcome to the Best New Male Character Award! Sorry about the delay." She snapped her fingers. "Guys?"

Four elegantly tuxedoed Beast-fics paraded onto the stage, each with top hat dashingly tilted and cane tucked neatly under one arm. In turn, from left to right, they bowed to the audience and tipped their hats. The Blue Believers crowd went wild, clapping and cheering. Everyone else clapped rather more sedately.

Dyce beamed. "Thanks, everybody. Anyway, I'll keep this short... The nominees list, Hank?"

Hank number two removed Hank number one's top hat and passed it to number three, who turned it upside down, shook it, and held it out to number four. Number four reached in, vanishing up to the shoulder, and pulled out a long streamer of paper, which he presented to Dyce with a wink. All four bowed to the clapping audience.

"Showoffs." Dyce snorted, holding up the list. "Woo...what a list." Dyce took a deep breath, putting the neckline of her dress in serious peril. "And the nominees are...Ash from Lori McDonald's Experiment 713 series, Brandon Downey from Life In The Breakdown Lane by Indigo, Brian Shin from Indigo's Tender Touches: The Tryst, The Trap, Cameron Quinn from X-S by Darqstar, Cyrus Parkmen from David Amaya's First Mutant, Darius from Kaylee's Kai & Logan series, Dennis from Sniper by Alec Wire, Gregor Northumberland by Falstaff, Jim from A Gothic X-Men Tale by Aoife, John Earlywine from the Variable X series by Jim Gould, Kevin Anderson-LeBeau from Raven Adams' Marpiya Wakankdi na Kimimi series, Manchild from the Bucktown Timeline by David J. Warner, Max 'Minitooth' Creed by JBMcDonald, Perkolater from the Bucktown Timeline by David J. Warner, Rafe Wallace from Gates' The Rain Whispers Series, Ramsay Judd from Second Flight, Rema'illon Neramani Xavier from Paradox Law by Valerie Jones, Special Agent Nichols from David Amaya's First Mutant, Vortex from Search by Maelstrom, The X-Mansion, Zach from Kaylee's Kai & Logan series, and Bander, Mindpath, Talonhawk, Wildman, Caterwaul by authors unknown!" There was a moment's awed silence as she gasped for breath. "What.. a list..."

"AAAAUUUUUUGGGGHHHH!!" The loud scream came, rather predictably, from the orchestra pit.

Dyce glared down into it. "What?" she snapped.

"The tuba-player just got dragged down into his own instrument!" the anonymous voice whimpered.

Dyce winced. "Oops. Uh...who WAS the tuba player?"

"Uh..." There was a momentary pause. "Actually...we're not sure, but we think it might have been a canon."

"Oh dear. I hope it wasn't an important one." Dyce shrugged. "Oh well. Bygones. Moving on." She held out her hand. "Envelope, please?" A Beast produced a small, sealed envelope, and handed it to her. "Thank you. In third place we have...Nudge-Nudge & Wink-Wink by Abyss from the Subreality Café!"

There was a round of applause, and a muffled squeak from inside the tuba. The anonymous voice had now reached the fatalistic calm on the far side of hysteria. "I should probably point out," it pointed out, "that the slippers have, in their excitement, eaten the piccolo."

"At least it wasn't the piccolo player. In second place... Glenn Keaton, from the Dawn Arc by Tapestry!"

More clapping and cheering, as much for Glenn himself as for the slightly manic announcement that the tuba had, indeed, just consumed the piccolo player, and it was a Cyclops.

"And the winner iiiiiiiiiis...by a very respectable margin...Will 'Archetype' Riley from The Archetype Association!!" Dyce beamed. More applause, slightly manic, ensued. Obviously the Bouncing Blues were taking effect.

The quartet of Beasts filed down off the stage, cornered Riley, and carried him shoulder high back to the stage. Setting him gently on his feet again, they returned to their neat line behind Dyce. "Congratulations," she smiled. "There was some pretty stiff competition there."

"Thanks--"

"Anyway, here's your award. Enjoy." She rather hurriedly handed him an amorphous golden statuette.

"I wi--"

"That's great, we're all happy for you. Uhm...run."

Fics and author alike scattered as the tuba, like the shell of a particularly vicious snail, was propelled up onto the stage with a series of bumps. A loud, argumentative chittering issued from underneath as it headed into the wings, pausing only to eat the nominees list and a hastily abandoned top hat.

INTERLUDE
By Diamonde (raven@logicworld.com.au)

"Poor tuba." Mystique grinned. "Entertaining, though." She waited for a comment on her taste for violence. It didn't happen. "Irene? Hel-lo?"

Destiny jumped. "Oh, I'm sorry, Raven. I was...distracted."

"No kidding. Would you like to tell me what it was?"

"I'd hate to ruin the surprise. Let's just move over there, and I promise that you'll see something just as entertaining as two slugs and a pair of bunny slippers fighting over an earthworm inside a tuba."

"Oh goody." Raven happily followed her significant other over to a quite spot near the wall. "I love awards night."

"Yes." He smiled hopefully. "Least I never get lonely."

"You're late."

"I was busy. Here's my story." He held out a pile of papers. "Would y' like me to prove it?" The Remy smirked as the bouncer read the passage and decided where the birthmark was.

"Let's not and say we did." He waved the relatively inoffensive Gambit inside. To tell the truth, he was getting a little sick of seeing the same face with the same red eyes over and over again...

"What? I can't see...oh my."

"The Gambits have reached critical mass."

There was certainly something strange happening to them. All the Remy LeBeaus that saturated the crowd were being sucked towards one point, although not very happily. They were upsetting tables and leaving scratch marks on the floor as they fought, often with unhappy writers clinging to one extremity or another and trying to drag them back.

Two Gambits being dragged in from opposite directions converged on the fateful point, seeming to dissolve into each other with a revolting 'shpluck' sound. One larger and very confused Gambit was left lying on the floor while all the others accelerated. In a few moments another one reached his larger version and merged, screaming all the while. The rest accelerated again.

One thief had grabbed the heaviest anchor within reach, which happened to be one of Dyce's Sabretooths, and was holding desperately to Creed's neck as he was pulled horizontal by his own private gravity.

"I'd let go if I were you, kid," Creed growled.

"Would you?" Remy said sarcastically. "Because being in dis situation myself, I really doubt it." He looked past his feet at the growing version of himself and whimpered.

"Darling!" screamed a Rogue, running towards them. Victor wondered how on earth she could tell which one was hers. "Heah, Ah'll pull you away!" She grabbed his wrist, Remy let go of Sabertooth, and they both shot towards the 12-foot Gambit, where Remy was absorbed and Rogue absently kicked aside.

Similar scenes were occurring all over the room. One Remy which had a Rogue and a Joseph desperately holding onto him did slightly better, but still ended up as part of the conglomerate.

"Hmm. Must be mass, not strength or flight," Creed mused. "I bet if put that big one on some scales it'd be the exact total of th' ones it absorbed." A nearby Monet looked at him in surprise. "Big and blond don't necessarily mean stupid," he said by way of explanation.

The central Gambit, now somewhere around eighteen feet tall, suddenly turned and ran for the door, a trail of duplicates following like a comet's tail as he exited the building. Most of them were still free as they hurtled across the room at increasing speeds, leaving trails of wreckage and swearwords in several languages, very rarely English. Soon most of the other members of the audience were obliged to duck for cover as a full-fledged Gambit storm raged over them.

Eventually the last fading scream stopped, and there was relative silence. Heads started to poke up again. Diamonde's appeared behind the bar, where she'd been stealing underage drinks during the confusion. "Hey!" she called in an outraged voice. "Where are all my Gambies?!" Fury overtaking prudence, she scampered to the door and started trying to bite the enormous ankle that was all that could be seen of the one huge Gambit. "Give them back! Give them back! They're mine! MINE MINE MINE!" Dyce nearly fell over giggling as her younger sister jumped up and down on the toes. "SPIT!" Bounce. "THEM!" Bounce. "OUT!" Bounce. "RIGHT!" Bounce. "NOW!!" Bouncebouncebounce! Gambitzilla idly shook the irate writer off, looking at the collection of people harassing his ankles in confusion.

"His memories are mixed up," a Jean/Madelyne/Phoenix said helpfully. "He can't remember whether he's supposed to be an X-Man, a thief, a Marauder, or a faery." She paused. "Who the hell made that one up? Anyway, there's some major disagreement over his age, height, marital status and personality, and that's just for starters."

"Give me that sword!" Diamonde screamed at an Illyana in the background.

"So what do we do?" Lynx asked, looking at the monument to fangirlishness with interest. There was potential for destruction there, and Lynx liked destruction.

"I have a Stryfe somewhere, I can find him and threaten to give him to Zanne! Or there's an avatar of mine over there! Don't make me do something I'm not gonna regret!"

Dyce looked over her sholder with a frown. "You know, we're really going to have to do something about her Gambit addiction."

Ian was watching with a startled expression. "When you said your sister was psychotic, I didn't think you meant literally."

"Oh, she's not usually like this," Lynx shrugged. "Most of the time she's worse. More coherent, though."

"I'll go ask Luba if she has an Amanda we can borrow for a minute," the unidentified redhead said, being completely ignored. She shrugged and went to look for Luba.

Daytripper nodded firmly. "They reached an accommodation with all the badly-written versions created by writers with more adoration than talent. It seems they were trying to combine into one single version, and thus get a share of the fun. It worked, obviously, but not quite the way they'd hoped."

"But...the erotica fics alone..." a writer said, turning white.

"Nobody's accusing them of being SANE, obviously."

"SohowdoIgetmyGambitsback?!?" Diamonde had stopped racing in small circles, mostly because the Stryfe she'd been looking for was helpfully holding her on the floor with one foot while he sat in her chair.

Reed Richards shrugged. "This is Subreality, it shouldn't be too difficult. Just concentrate on the differences between yours and all the others; they should separate into their usual forms."

"OkayIcandothat!" Diamonde shut her eyes. "Although I'd probably do a lot better if someone would take his *foot* off my *sternum*."

"You keep your grubby little fingers out of my childhood and I'll let you up."

"Give up a storyline? Never!" Looking rather like a turtle on its back, the 5'6 and rather light writer struggled to get out from under a foot with planet-moving TK behind it.

"Then stay there."

"Shh. Thinking."

"So that's what I smell burning..."

A Cable tried to shoot him out of principle; the writer ignored them both. She screwed up her face and concentrated instead. "Differences...I can't even remember how many I have. Okay, one's got a busted knee, one has all those kids, one got his personality reversed by the omnipotent alien..."

The ripple of thought spread through the room as many writers focussed on the little personal touches that made their versions distinctly theirs.

With a loud pop, a Remy LeBeau wearing a distressed expression and a hat with bells flew out of Gambitzilla's left leg and landed in front of his writer. "Oh, it's you," he said mournfully. "Go away."

Mel poked him with her foot. "Do you want me to write you happy or not? You'll get there. Eventually."

There were several more pops, and some of the more radically different Remys detached themselves. One with pointy ears sidled towards Diamonde, blushing and looking at the floor.

"How come you got out but the others didn't?" She looked angrily between the Elseworlds version which still belonged to her and the Remy she'd given to Mel.

"Dey didn't like us very much. Concentrate harder."

There was an almost audible (okay, in some places it was) sound of straining brains, and more Gambits started to separate themselves with a variety of disgusting effects. There was a scuffle for strong liquor and somewhere in the back a fight broke out between a writer and associated Rogue who claimed the one she'd lost had different shoes, but the LeBeaus were reclaimed, one by one, and returned (usually) to their proper owners.

"Umm..." Doc Strange looked at the twenty-foot tall Gambit remaining.

"Umm..." said Amanda Sefton.

"Whoops," said Reed Richards. "Does everybody have the Gambits belonging to them?" he called back into the crowd.

There was a mixture of affirmatives and 'wait, let me count's, but nobody reported any missing.

"This would be..." Lynx looked expectant.

"The pod-Gambits, I think." Reed stretched to look a little closer, then pulled back. "Definitely pod."

"Good," hissed the mega-Gambit. "No more indecision, no more irritating memory-splits, and most of all no *stupid* accent!"

"HEY!" screamed innumerable writers in outrage, ignoring the way his eyes glowed much more that they were technically supposed to.

"Just me!" He pulled a playing-card the size of a small table out of his pocket and charged it. "And I'm going to--!" Nobody ever found out what he was going to do. He exploded in a burst of yellowish white psionic flame.

"What did you do that for?!" Cable yelled.

Stryfe looked at his original genetic template, down at his hand, then back up again, seeming somewhat perplexed. "Because he was *there*."

"Pod-Gambits are irritating, especially when they think they're important," Diamonde said defensively, ignoring the fact that nobody would think she had any control over him while she was still pinned firmly under booted heel where, in his opinion, she belonged.

"Well, yes, but...what is this flonqing thing on my foot?"

Diamonde turned her head to look, reasoning that given Summers height genes and her current position her eyes were much closer to his foot than his were. "It looks like a Gambit action figure." She made a grab for it and the 'action figure' squeaked and ran away.

"There's another one over here." Stryfe pulled the minature thief out from under the table, holding him at eye level. "Seems to be living, but not very bright," he reflected as it struggled against the telekinetic grip.

"There's some more over there. And one on the bar," Diamonde pointed.

"Just what we need. Vermin," muttered a waiter as he/she passed. (Subreality favoured androgenous serving staff as it meant they were less likely to have their work interrupted by randy fictives, although it still happened occasionally, especially when the scumble was flowing freely.)

Stryfe idly incinerated the pod-baby. "Not much substance to them, is there?"

"Stryfe, darling, sweetiepie..."

Stryfe winced. "I'm not going to let you up, and if you call me sweetiepie again I'll have to break your ribs."

"I was just wondering if you'd mind using your incredibly amazing powers to catch me one?" Diamonde batted her eyelashes hopefully.

Cable looked down at her sadly. "You have absolutely no shame, do you? You don't even like him."

"Oh, I have *shame*. Just not a heap of pride. You'll notice I continued writing this interlude even after I got pinned on the floor and couldn't manage to write myself back up again."

"Why not?"

"He won't let me. My characterisation demon won't let me do something unless it's believable, and your double here is quite a determined person..."

"Me too." His writer banged his beer mug down heavily onto another one.

"Uh, you really should have turned that over first..."

"Why?" He peeled the now-flat Remy off the bottom. "I'm going to have him covered in plastic and made into a coaster."

Dex shrugged. "Most of them."

"What do you think we should do with the little pests?" She pushed a drooling bunny-slipper away from the cage with her foot. Carefully, of course, but it had already eaten so many it was having trouble moving around anyway.

Dex looked speculative. "Well, I did hear a Sabretooth say that they're nice with onion dip..."

"Tell me you're not serious."

He grinned. "No, but I had you for a second, didn't I?"

BEST NEW WRITER
By Mitai (jaya_gm@hotmail.com)

Mitai took a deep breath and scrunched as far back in the seat as possible. Dressed in her performance black velvet gown, which was a figure-hugger, this was quite a difficult task indeed. Indigo, her Shepherd, was trying to comfort her.

"The Muse picks who the Muse picks. And think of it this way -- the decision was original."

Mitai groaned and picked up her oboe. "First off, my Muse is probably a drunk seven-year-old. Or a puddle of angst. Second off -- no other Writer here is dumb enough to let Scrambler do the presentation. Particularly mine." Frowning, she looked at the sheet music in her right hand. "Who's conducting this one?"

Indigo shrugged and gently hooked Mitai out of her seat with the Bo Peep shepherding staff, directing her toward the orchestra pit. As Mitai passed, Matt gave her a lopsided grin. "Well, you have a nice solo, whoever the winner. Go...tune the orchestra or something. And relax."

"Relax? Oh, oh yeah, I'm going to relax. Sure. Yeah. That'll happen. Relax? Tell that to Kaylee." Said Writer looked mildly surprised, holding a snapped-off armrest in her hand and inspecting it as though she had never seen one before. Matt blinked, and Indigo awwwed and rushed over, as PoiLass sat beside Kaylee, laughing hysterically.

Humming the music to herself, Mitai rather reluctantly approached her fictive, a Scrambler in a tuxedo. A black leather one.

"No."

Kim looked at her with wide eyes. "But--"

"NO."

Grumbling, he found himself in a respectable tuxedo with white gloves, a cummerbund and a bow tie. She nodded thanks to Brooke, who grinned and tucked away her laptop.

"One of the Remys got to wear a leather tux," he groused.

He abruptly found himself on the floor with a very angry-looking Mitai in his face, her oboe at his throat. Her blue eyes even managed, all by themselves, to look menacing.

"I put Kielle through Hell and beyond at two in the morning to get this gig. If you mess this up ...I have no idea what I'll do to you. But, oh, trust me, it'll make _Abyss_ frightened. You got that?"

Scrambler nodded emphatically. Mitai leaned out of his face, straightened her dress, and walked over to another of her original fictives, Christina. Kim's escort for the evening, she was wearing an emerald gown with spaghetti straps and looked like she was about to explode, her face almost the same shade as the sparkling gown. A quick glance from a harried Kielle made the meeting nothing more than an gentle hug and a dash for places. Mitai disappeared into the pit, and very soon a gorgeous oboe solo brought Kim and Christina, arm and arm, onto the stage.

There was loud, if not surprised, applause.

Scrambler smiled and waved, then stopped, a tight, shocked look on his face, deer caught in a spotlight, as the case was. Somewhere in the back, a Sinister chuckled darkly. It was Christina that had to drag him out across the stage, despite the loud, nervous clack-clack-clack her heels made on the stage as they touched and left the floor. She hauled him to the podium, the tune died, and the TelePrompTer glowed cheerily at them.

Scrambler squinted once, then began.

"Well, this year the presentation for Best New Writer...was written...by a new writer. How fitting, eh?"

Christina nodded, smoothly failing to cover the blip.

"Yes." As she continued, he muttered, "Not my fault she made me nearsighted." Christina ignored him.

"There are some fine new Writers on the scene these days. As a matter of fact, there were over fifty candidates this year up for the award. The Runners Up are Sabre, Maelstrom, PoiLass, and Indigo." She paused as the applause swelled. "And I'm pleased and honored to now announce the top three candidates for this year's Best New Writer award."

Scrambler cut in smoothly. "Coming in rather late in the year to make such an impression is our own dear Writer, Mitai. She really isn't nearly as sweet as she seem--"

Christina smiled brightly while Scrambler's eyes crossed and he melted behind the podium. She returned her hand to the lectern.

"Mitai brought attention to herself by showing the two-dimensional character as a person, using emotion instead of direct conflict, and in situations that didn't call for their super strength or mutant power, as seen in this clip from 'Warriors And Little Girls.'"

Scrambler had not yet reappeared, and Christina smiled even more broadly, if not a bit tremulously.

"The next name I'm honored to announce is Amanda Sichter. She has a remarkably unique talent that makes us laugh, makes us cry, and makes us think. Such a range of emotions and skill with language is incredibly difficult to find in any one writer, particularly in a new writer with relatively little experience, and we see it best here, in this clip, from "The Spirit and the Setting Free."

Scrambler's head popped back up with a grin and he managed to keep his voice reasonably steady and believably pitched for the next announcement.

"And the third, I'm pleased to say, is Kaylee. Her Kai & Logan series is one of the best-read of any fanfic series on the net, her original character Kai has become almost as popular as that cute little blue daughter of Hank's, and her fics are full of wit and emotion, and tug the heartstrings, or tease the mind. Blah blah blah, the clip is from "''Til Christmas.'" As the lights dimmed again, he was plainly heard saying, "Who _writes_ this teledrek?"

The lights came back on, and Christina handed the three thick white envelopes to Scrambler. He took them with an exaggerated flourish, daintily. He rustled the envelope a bit. Then he finally gently pulled out the tab, and carefully removed the card inside. The entire process took almost forty seconds. The crowd was silent for their entirety.

"And in third place, we have...Amanda Sichter!"

The beaming new Writer was shown on camera to much applause, almost blinded by the spotlight. Christina grinned at the whistles and screams.

Scrambler took his dear sweet time opening the second, as well. His hand snapped back just as he was about to remove the card, and he popped a finger into his mouth with an injured look. There was a strangled sound from the orchestra pit, and a sudden loud *crack!* from someone in the audience, almost drowned out by the exaggerated rustling of the paper. He finally took his finger out of his mouth and withdrew the card. Scrambler cleared his throat and smiled broadly at the camera.

"In second place, we have...Jaya!"

He didn't seem to notice the murmur of question and diseased applause that died almost instantly, and the sudden, distant hum that followed. Christina bent to read over his shoulder, and he glared and elbowed her away.

"And the _winner_," he stressed with a growl at Christina, before turning back to the microphone, "Is...Jaya?"

The crowd was moving, now, pausing to look at each other and the candidates, or at least the one visible. Their murmur had changed to a dull roar.

He shrugged. "Okay, so she's good, but I mean, come on, folks, isn't this a little...waitaminute. What is this?...is this Jesse's evil sisterclone, Jaya Willey? I mean, hey, cloning is a good business, but people, _please_ ...Hmm, that reminds me...okay, these two clones walk into a bar..."

A tired, quiet voice called out of the orchestra pit. It was impossible to tell precisely what she said.

There then began a low rumbling, tiny at first, not heard over Kaylee's angsting and the outraged and frustrated audience. Then it gradually grew, shaking the timpani and using them to amplify the noise tremendously until it attracted the attention of the debating crowd, actually silencing them, except for several voices raised in question.

"Peer?"

Scrambler carried on with his joke, not noticing the podium actually trembling on the stage. Those in the first row began to look a little alarmed as their desserts began to line-dance on the table.

"Don't move! They won't hurt you," Indigo called out.

"Stand still," Matt Nute advised.

The rumbling grew, and grew. An irate and rather armed-looking Kielle began to stalk onto stage, smiling rather oddly, her hands clasped behind her, her head tilted at a peculiar angle. There was a very strange light glowing in her pupils, and the overall affect was rather startling.

"Oath!" Alicia McKenzie gasped and suddenly a Cable fic was there, telekinetically yanking the slightly over-zealous stage manager out of the way.

Of a herd of sheep.

And these were no ordinary sheep. A Deadpool exclaimed, "Gotta get me one of those for the sheep gun! And whatever they're on. Whew-hoo!" With the herd of sheep billowed a cloud of something that was most probably highly illegal, and extremely difficult to procure.

Scrambler was oblivious to the entire thing. "And they look at the bartender, and say, 'Because...it's a poodle!'"

The red-rimmed eyes of the sheep were narrow; baa-aahing regally, they rushed past like an express train. Christina stepped forward discreetly, putting the podium between her and the animals that were, well, stoned. On hashish. The infamous Hasheep.

And when the herd had passed, Scrambler was simply nowhere to be seen. There was perfect silence as Christina gathered up the envelopes from the floor. Some of them were stuck rather gummily to the stage, and she looked even more green as she began to audibly peel them off the floor. The silence was then rather blissfully shattered by howling laughter.

"AH HAH HAH HAH!!...heehee...*snicker*...poodle...oooh...
heh heh..." Laersyn waved helplessly at Christina, encouraging her to go on, still shaking with his chuckles and holding a hankie to his eyes. The rest of the crowd murmured for a moment, then all was silent.

Christina still looked green, and the cards looked strangely...
multicolored.

"Second place goes to Jaya Mitai."

There was the sound of a bottle cork popping in the pit. Or it may have been a rather exotic percussion instrument. Then everything was drowned out by applause.

Christine smiled brightly at the camera as a fantastic drum roll commenced. "Which means, first place, winner of the Creative License for Best New Writer, is Jaya Kaylee."

The spot found her, holding what appeared to be two rather long wooden blocks and blinking absently. Matt Nute carefully took the armrests away from her and Poi practically kicked her toward the stage. She ascended the stairs, her mouth set in a very straight, controlled line, her eyes blinking rapidly in the bright stage lighting. Christine smiled broadly at the deadpan Writer and presented the award. And then KayJay had the microphone.

"Uhm...omigod. Ohmigod. Ohmigod! OHMIGOD!!!" She started hopping up and down, laughing, smiling, screaming, clutching the award to her chest. When the scream died, and the first explosion of applause, she started giggling and laughing almost hysterically. Then she schooled her features into a perfectly emotionless mask. For about four seconds.

"Ohmigod ..."

A chuckling, rough voice called out. "Yer supposed ta say thanks, darlin'."

"Who woulda thought she'd have said _that_?" a definite Kai voice teased.

"Uhm...thank you??? Ohmigod!!!" She began pointing at various people with her free hand, jumping up and down, giggling madly.

"OtherJaya! Incoming!" A bottle of Zinfandel with a golden foil bow sailed up from the orchestra pit. The Cable caught it, and gently set down a laughing, smiling Kielle, handing her the bottle before excusing himself and getting offstage.

KayJay didn't even notice. There was a standing ovation as she grinned like an idiot into the darkness behind the lights, and she headed off stage in a daze, Christina helping her all the way. Kielle, still grinning, headed off in the opposite direction, absently tossing the bottle of wine up and down in her hand.

This portion of the CBFFAs, the Best New Writer Award, was written by Jaya Mitai, who would like to thank Kielle for her patience (the line about Kielle through hell at two o'clock is TRUE! *sob!* I'm SORRY!!!! *beg*) and her patient beta readers, and especially Amanda and Kaylee, so they don't kill me if I portrayed them badly. Many thanks to Matt, Indigo, Kielle, and Alicia for their patience.

BEST ESTABLISHED WRITER
By Susan "Neon Nurse" Crites (carosue@iguana.ruralnet.net)

To the mild annoyance of a few unfortunates seated nearby, the First Annual Blue Believers Banquet was proving a roaring success. The long, crowded table was loaded with all sorts of azure delicacies, brought in by the members for a big blue-themed pot luck.

The Cafe being the sort of place it was, the various dishes had become self-replicating, so there was plenty to share with new and old friends drifting by. Indigo and Kaylee had been gifted with a large serving of blue corn tortilla chips and blue cheese dip to take back to the table they were sharing with the fellow Writers who had claimed them first. Cookie Monster had eaten so many light blue cookies with blue M & M's for chips that he could only laze back in his Guest of Honor chair with his furry hands crossed over his fully-rounded tummy, somnolent with sugar-satiety. He couldn't even manage one of Denise's elegant lavender-basil creations when she passed the plate around.

This was a special evening for the Blue Believers, and not just because of the CBFFA awards, though of course that was the highlight of the evening. They were inducting a new character into the Blue pantheon. She had earned the invitation through her amazing efforts on behalf of children everywhere, her cuteness, fuzziness, smartness, Cluefulness, and of course her blue coloring.

Blue the Puppy sat on a chair next to her owner Steve, who was having almost TOO good a time. In honor of the occasion he was wearing a sky on navy striped shirt instead of his traditional green stripes, and the change seemed to have sent him off into the deep end of hilarity. Well, that and a glass or two of Blue Nun.

"This is SO much fun," he earnestly said to Cassie Cantrell, seated at his other side.

She smiled and patted his arm. Sweet, earnest men were her weakness. "Would you like another blueberry crepe?"

"I'LL have another one...or two," said Cassie's own sweet and earnest Hank. "If you'll please pass them to this side after Steve has been served?"

"Oh, I don't want to take the last--" Cassie deftly shifted the last one in the warming dish to Steve's plate, and half a dozen more instantly appeared.

Steve goggled, then grinned boyishly. "How much d'ya LOVE this place? I gotta come here more often!" Blue barked agreement. She thought she would very much enjoy being in a fanfic, just as a change from children's educational programming.

Another guest of honor, Grover, was drinking milk from a very special blue cup. It said Blue Believers around the rim in a pretty script, and had been brought into being by Christine G, seated beside him. She'd kindly ceded it to Grover when he admired the color and the large handle, which he could fit his furry little Muppet hand into without problems, then thought herself a duplicate.

"You LIKE the Buffy the Vampire Slayer show?!" Grover was saying to Breanna, on his other side.

"Well, yes, I do," she admitted. "Don't you?"

"Oh, no. Grover does not LIKE shows that are too scary." He shook all over, demonstrating his reaction to them. "Besides...."

"Besides?"

"On that show, all the monsters are...bad. It makes Grover feel sad, because...he is a FRIENDLY little blue fuzzy monster." He sighed loudly.

"Muppet angst. Who knew?" Randy murmured to the table at large, over his spiked Blue Raspberry Slurpee.

"But it's okay, Grover. Those monsters aren't real like you. They're merely costumed projections of subconscious teen psychodramatics."

"Oh. Well, that is not so bad then. Christine, would you please pass me another of your very pretty little blue eggrolls?" She did. "How did you get them so blue?"

"Using purple cabbage instead of the usual kind -- neat, huh?"

"Martha Stewart would never think of it in a miiiillion years."

Katie was in charge of a huge bowl of blue plain and peanut AND almond M & Ms, many of which, sad to say, had been pressed into service as ammunition, and illicitly hurled at various targets both deserving and un-. A few seats down, the future Dr. Chris was presiding, with an evil smile, over a large blue raspberry jello mold in the shape of a brain. Because she was in her blue-shift form, it complimented her complexion in a way that was vaguely disquieting. No one but her, Jarod, and McCoy, up from his underground lair for the festivities, had yet dared to actually taste it. Possibly because of the inflating and deflating luminescent mechanism inside that caused it to throb and glow with a maleficent intelligence? At least, that's what Katie SAID was causing it....

A most unusual fireplace stood near one end of the table -- up close, it looked real enough that assorted X-Babies kept trying to hang Christmas stockings from it -- hey, in Subreality it was worth a shot! From a distance, though, an observer could see dimly through it to the rest of the crowded Cafe. Tom was in his comfy chair on the holo-hearth, occasionally sipping from his tankard of cyber-cider. Beside him sat another member of the Blue Believers pantheon, the Tick (with his faithful companion Arthur on hand, of course). The Tick met the Blues' fan-object requirements because of his blue suit and eternally fuzzy mental state.

At the moment, Tom and the Tick were involved in a raucously intense debate on the nature, influence and parentage of justice. Though not so much so that they were missing any goodies. "Maleficent jello Brain, bow to my straw!" Tick cried when that eerie culinary masterpiece jiggled past on its blinking serving tray.

"Try a 'Spoon!'" advised Tom.

Next to Chris, Layla was telling Kurt Wagner about the 'frutsuppa' he was enjoying so much. "My father told me how to make it," she said. "It's a traditional Swedish dish, various native berries pureed into soup, chilled and served."

"It's very blue," he said, "and quite delicious. You must give me the details of the recipe later, Fraulein."

"Me too!" said Dande. "More blue crab, Kurt?"

Nightcrawler sighed happily. "Spoiled to death by two beautiful frauleins. What a fate! Why does no one ever write it?"

A faintly frazzled Kielle passed by again, using her Superhuman Powers of Organization for good, as per usual. "Susan, your presenter is on deck after Christina and Kim for Best New Writer!"

"He'll be there, no worries!" Susan said to her rapidly departing back.

"Hey, who wants to play a game?" Keith called out.

"Not X-trivia again," Alyson protested. "I mean, no offense, but you always win!"

"No -- too noisy to play X-trivia tonight," Keith said. "But 'Praise Blue' is easy. Anytime someone says 'Blue', we all yell 'Blue', and then eat, sip or chug something blue!"

"Hmmm. SOUNDS simple enough," Ms. Marvel (ours, not the fic or canon one) acknowledged. In a trice, it was agreed.

It might seem that the Blue Banquet was not the apex of healthy dining, but as a matter of fact, all the food groups WERE represented. Fruit, chocolate, dairy, alcohol, fruits and vegetables, sugar.... Even protein was on board, due to the blue crab, and a certain variety of oysters. Which had reminded the Neon Nurse of a poem.

"Those remind me of a poem!" she announced to those nearest her. Susan had had a couple of the blue raspberry Jello shots, plus a Blue Norther and a Blue Banzai, and several witty folk had ordered her Fuzzy Blue Navels. She'd been forced to take a sip or two of each of these, just to be fair to all of her benefactors. She was therefore in an even more cheerful than usual mood. 'A trifle well-to-live,' it would be called in one of the Georgette Heyer novels she liked so much, though she was certainly not 'shot in the neck.' She was, however, totally prepared to declaim poetry.

"This is by Baxter Black, the famous cowboy poet, who is a very nice man," she announced as she rose to her feet. Those at the table in her immediately vicinity stopped chatting and looked expectant.

"BLUE!!!" those who were playing the Praise Blue game cried, and sipped beverages or munched blue M & M's according to their personal preference. Blue yipped and jumped up to dance in a little circle on the table, then hopped back in her chair.

"We ARE," Cassie insisted in a mock-fierce whisper, with a pretended frown at Hank's skeptical New York eyebrow raise. Her grin ruined the whole effect.

"BLUE!!!" The blue M & M's began to fly again. "Flying candies of vengeance, beware!" yelled The Tick, catching as many as he could.

Now BOTH Hank's eyebrows went up. Susan pretended not to notice.

Various strange noises from the males in the party greeted this line, as even the most innocent finally realized the poem was NOT about your basic bivalve-type oyster. Several were actually blushing, and those playing Praise Blue were too stunned to do more than open and close their mouths silently. Like bluegills.

"Aaaand, I just forgot the rest of the poem, sorry," Susan finished, abruptly remembering the star of a children's show was present. Sighs of relief and groans of disappointment mixed in the air.

Thalionar made a mental note to approach Susan later for the rest of the "forgotten" rhyme, and remembered she had been just about to ask Ian a question. Ian and Dyce had their heads together very cozily. Obviously the "little incident" was forgotten already. A blueberry pie had "slipped" from Ian's hand into the, ah, south of the belt buckle region of the Gambit fic who had unwisely been flirting with Dyce in her spiffy blue dress.

"Did you remember to bring the petition, Ian? Uh, Ian? IAN!!"

Rubbing his ear where the blue M & M had bounced off, Ian said, "Huh?"

"The petition. The one from all the artists asking Kielle to add a category for fanfic ART awards to the CBFFAs. Did you bring it?"

"Oh, sure thing! I thought I might spot a few more artists here tonight, and give them a chance to sign it. But I'll definitely give it to Kielle before we all blink home."

The passing of food and drink slowed down as the awards started, and the Blues considerately whispered their occasional cries of 'Blue!' and other non-official verbularities. For the finale of the meal, little ice cream cups appeared, with Aparma's pink and blue swirl sherbet and Denise's lavender ice cream sharing the dish. Soon it was time for their guest's part of the ceremony, and they cheered with glee as Steve, with Blue bouncing along behind, headed for the stage stairs.

Steve walked out to the podium, waving both hands to clear away the last traces of sheep-induced smoke drifting through the air. "Hi out there!" he called. From his shoulder, Blue yipped her own greeting to the crowd. "First of all, I want to say how honored I am to have been invited to present the Best Established Writer Award--"

The crowd roared enthusiastic approval -- whether for Steve, the award, or the fact they were revved enough to cheer for anything would be hard to say -- and Blue stuffed the ends of her long semi-prehensile ears up against her head. Her whimper was lost in the tumult.

From out of nowhere, a pink and purple Mailbox on an infinite extending arm popped in, and an invisible barbershop quartet sang, "Mail time, mail time, mail time, mail time, MAA-II-ILLL TIIIIME!!"

Steve grinned sheepishly at the audience. "I can't resist, I just gotta do it," he explained, then broke into song. All the parents and the very hippest non-parents joined in:

"Here's the mail, it never fails, it makes me wanna wag my tail,
When it comes I wanna wail, 'MMAAAAIIILLLL!!!!"

Extracting three envelopes from inside, he said, "Thanks, Mailbox!"

"Don't mention it, Steve," said Mailbox in his strange New York-like accent. "Thanks for the cameo!"

"Okay, have we built up enough suspense yet?" Steve asked the audience. They whooped and he said, "Okay, great!" as he opened the first envelope. "So let's have a big hand for the Classic winner, and last year's Best Established Writer, Valerie Jones! Where's Valerie sitting?"

Necks craned, and Valerie was urged to a standing position by her tablemates. Not having a mike, whatever it was she said as she turned and waved to the whole assemblage was lost to posterity.

"Next, the runners-up. Blue, envelope please?" Blue tore off the top of the next one with her aforementioned talented ears, and passed it to Steve. "Please hold your applause until I read all the names," Steve said, then added, "Thank ya ver' much," in his best Elvis Voice. "The Runners-up are Alicia McKenzie, Falstaff, Matt Nute, Alara Rogers, and Lori McDonald!"

This of course set off another round of pandemonium, and congratulatory blue M&M's flew like a hailstorm throughout the room. Alara alone sat smug and safe inside a protective magnetic screen thoughtfully provided by...well, you know.

Steve waited patiently with his trademarked pleasant smile for things to calm down again. "How are we doing on the suspense?" The crowd shrieked briefly. "Okay!" Blue passed him the BIG results envelope, and he dug around inside it for the fatal slip embossed with the winners' names.

"In third place, we have...Kielle!" The crowd went wild -- well, wilder, really. From behind the backstage curtains, the Scribe stuck out her head and waved at the audience with her clipboard, then ducked away to return to her monumental task of keeping the Award Ceremony on track.

"You're doing a REALLY great job, Kielle," Steve added, not QUITE lost in the din since he was the man with the microphone. "Okay! Next, in second place...Indigo!"

The screaming and cheering was almost deafening--and that was just from the Blue Believers table. "Indi-GO! Indi-GO! Indi-GO!" they chanted, and the room picked it up as the shy and retiring Indy rose from the Writer's table, waved hastily in all directions, and sat back down, nearly overcome with emotion.

"Okay, before we name the winner -- I'm really gonna need your help. Will you help me?" An affirmative roar came from the audience. "Great! We're going to play a short version of Blue's Clues to find out who the winner is!" A movie screen shaped like a big blue pawprint unfurled from the rafters. There were three blank spaces on it.

The first image to appear on the screen was an X logo. "Hmm. This person writes mainly in the X-universe, I'd say," Steve guessed. "So that should narrow it down." The audience groaned. "Aw, I can't make it TOO easy. You guys aren't little kids!" he remonstrated cheerfully.

Blue barked at the screen and the next image appeared. It was a bit confusing, full of candles and bottles of liquid and less readily identifiable things set on shelves in front of a dark image of a man hunched over a typewriter. You couldn't really see his face, obscured as it was by cigarette smoke. "Now that...what IS that?" The audience studied it in silence, and then various voices sang out, "A book shelf?" "A candle store?" "A Writer!"

"Yes, I do think that's a Writer there..." Steve mused. "Is he...trying to write by candlelight because he didn't pay his electric bill?"

"No!" Naw!" "No -- it's an ALTAR!"

"OHH, yeah, of course! An altar!" Steve agreed, though he was plainly not sure he wasn't missing some crucial point here. "So...our winner writes mostly X-stories, and...has a really, really, really favorite Writer?" Blue yipped and nodded as she jumped from the podium to Steve's head and back in her excitement. "Anybody guess who it is yet?"

Surprisingly, no one tried, until Blue added the third clue, an image of Kitty Pryde and Pete Wisdom with their arms around each other. Then a storm of voices shouted, "LUBA!!"

"Hey, that's right!" Steve exclaimed, looking at his winners' list. "You guys are so good at this! This year's winner of the Best Established Writer Award is Luba Kmetyk! Luba, come on up!"

As the crowd and especially the Blue Believers, stamped, hooted and applauded, Luba made her way through the throngs of well-wishers and fans, and finally managed to get on stage, where she immediately found her arms full of a fuzzy blue puppy busily licking her face. Steve rescued her and weakly explained, "Blue says congratulations."

"Er, thanks, Blue," Luba answered, wondering if flannel dogs left lint marks with their tongues where they licked you. She took the her award from Steve in one hand and the mike in the other. "I want to thank all the people who voted for me, and all the visitors to my home page Fonts of Wisdom (http://home.att.net/~lubakmetyk/), oh, and of course all the writers who have let me archive their fiction there. And thanks to my fellow Blues for the great dinner!" She scurried off the stage before Steve could lose control of his puppy again.

"Well, that's it for this section," Steve said. "'Thanks for doing your part! You sure are smart!'" he quoted. Blue howled for him to sing it right and he gave in, finishing the ditty, joined again by those in the know. "'Cause with me and you, and my dog Blue, we can do ANYTHING that we want to do!' Goodbye! See you on Nick Jr! Bye!"

And he headed down the stage stairs and back to the Blue Believer table, ready for a second go-round at the pot luck.

Kielle and the rest of the CBFFA writers for waiting so long for me to get my act together (yes, it's common for that to take a glacial epoch or two).

The Blue Believers, who helped me write this, and allowed me to impugn their characters, their dignity and their appetites. I also thank them for a continual stream of entertaining posts in my in-box! (You too can be a Blue Believer -- just send an email to majordomo@Mailing-List.net that says subscribe bluebelievers )

Thanks for Steve Burns and everyone who had a hand in creating one of the best kids' shows EVER -- Blue's Clues!

P.S. Yeah, I made the word "verbularities" up. I'm a Writer, I'm allowed. :)

BEST ORIGINAL SUBGENRE
By Seraph (seraph2@hotmail.com)

Falstaff smiled out at the audience, adjusted his suit slightly, and glared at Dex, who smiled and gave him a thumbs-up while taking another gulp of his ever-present Guinness. Out in the audience a rather strange exchange was taking place...

"Best ya give up now, don't wanna have to hurt ya."

Kai chose that moment to scream in horror as she heard the cliched Logan dialogue, a nearby Jubilee comforting her as she began to sob.

"But...he doesn't sound like that!"

"There, there, he isn't your Logan, Kai," Jubilee soothed the traumatised Fictive.

"Gramps, only one round here's goin' to be hurt is you," Buffy quipped, taking out a stake.

Angel might have screamed then as well but he was too busy brooding in a darkened corner -- and besides, screaming would alert people to his lurking, and there's nothing worse then having people actually know you're lurking. It takes all the fun out of jumping out at them later on. Angel smiled to himself...yes, jumping out at people was fun, and the blo...no, bad Angel, angst, must angst now...angstangstangst.

Back at the main action Logan smiled ferally at Buffy and she made a "come on" gesture with her hand, holding the stake expertly in the other. Logan popped his claws and began to advance.

"Last time anyone ever links me with those, those angsters!" Buffy screams and launches herself at Logan.

"Popcorn, get yer popcorn here," said a voice from the depths of the crowd.

Logan vaulted Buffy over his head and sent her crashing into the crowd behind her. She immediately recovered and dived back into the fight.

"Sausages inna bun, only one dollar and I'm cuttin' me own throat," sang the voice again.

It was at that moment that a wild cliché, stumbling drunkenly across the room, hand clutching tightly to a Marauder shot, crashed into a dire plotline, sending it careening into the two fighters. Boy Meets Girl glared at the drunken cliché before extracting itself and swanning off in a huff, the cliché following as it apologised profusely.

Dex watched the crowd disperse, humming softly to himself as the two now lovers sat down in a shadowy corner.

"Ready now?" Falstaff asked.

Dex nodded and walked up to the microphone, adjusting his cuffs for a second before leaning forward to speak. The crowd quietened down and listened attentively, at least, as attentively as a room full of drunken, brawling, bawling, screaming, fighting, and just plain lurking and angsting Fictives can.

"I'd like to introduce Phil Foster and Rossi who'll be presenting the Most Original Subgenre award -- give them a round folks."

The crowd applauded wildly, a few Cables raising firearms to shoot over their heads in their excitement. Plaster rained down from the roof and the Manager groaned in agony.

"My Café, my beautiful Café..."

Rossi fussed with Phil's tie a second longer before standing back and surveying her handywork, critical eyes pursing his figure.

"Much better," she pronounced finally.

Phil pouted as only a Brit who's had his beer taken off him by a female can, folded his arms across his chest, and sulked. "How's this get up any better then what I had on?"

"Phil, you can't present an award in a rugby shirt and jeans. It's just not done, mate."

"Was me best rugby shirt though, cleaned it up especially, hardly any mud on it and I even got out the blood stain," Phil complained, pouting harder.

"Men," Rossi said, rolling her eyes.

Falstaff raised an eyebrow and Dex shrugged, reaching for the microphone just as Rossi and Phil stepped onto the stage. Nodding at the two, Dex handed Rossi the mic and faded into the background, taking Falstaff with him. Rossi smiled at the audience and began to speak.

"We write fanfic because we want to know what might have happened and what could have been. In a world where the unusual is usual these genres stand out. The Nominees for Best Original Subgenre are..."

Phil stepped up to the mic and spoke. "The Challenges, the Subreality Café Round Robins, the Common People Project (started by me an' Kielle, mind you), the Arleccino Timeline by Falstaff, X-S (Growing Up X) by Darqstar, and the Subreality Café."

"I can't believe you did that all in one breath."

"If I had a pound for every time a gel had said that to me..."

"You'd still be fishing under the couch for loose change. Moving right along. The runners-up for Most Original Subgenre are: The Challenges..."

"What tape?" asked a bemused stagehand.

"The tape, the tape with a cutscene from a challenge fic! For the love of little green apples..."

"It would seem that we're suffering a few minor technical difficulties, but, on with the show. The next runner up is..."

Subreality Café Round Robins

Rossi shuddered slightly and looked around, wondering where the chill had come from. Seeing no obvious source she watched Phil lean toward the mic.

"Next up is..."

The Common People Project