Title: Beware The Fourth Wall Breachers
Rating: T
Parings: None
Warnings: Crack, possible OOC, AU, six written pages of weirdness concocted due to last-minute-OHSHIZ! factor. OTL
Disclaimer: RENT isn't mine, yadda yadda yadda.
A/N: HAPPY FLIPPIN' BELATED BIRTHDAY STARLA!!! *GLOMPSLIKEWOAH*
-----X3-----
The door was shut and locked as a precaution, the lights were off, and there was a curiously illuminated lump sprouting out of the centre of the bed.
"I'm getting far too old for this," the young author cursed, perhaps rather ironically, as she bathed in the sickly wash of light from her laptop screen, typing rapidly.
The empty juice box in her peripheral annoyed her and she swatted it off the bed, unheeding the fact that it landed straight in the wastepaper bin some few feet behind her.
Swish.
Another Halls was swiftly unwrapped and crammed into her scowling mouth before she resumed tapping keys with a rabid ferocity.
"Up far past my bed time...school tomorrow...make my damn cold worse...unforgivable! Mother will kill me...," she muttered darkly to herself as she spellchecked for the umpteenth time.
A school night indeed...well, at least she'd finished her homework beforehand this time.
"Damn Yearbook...if we had more members we wouldn't have to stay so la—FINISHED!" she crowed in delight before slapping a hand over her own mouth, eyes wide with horror at her own stupidity.
Why, oh why did my little sister have to take the bedroom next door?
The initial scare being over, when the next few minutes yielded no further interruptions, the writer went back to examining her screen.
"Perfect...yes...it's perfect. Now for the secret component..."
She threw herself off the bed, almost collapsing to the floor as her cramped legs attempted to support her weight a little too quickly for their personal preference.
"God damn..."
A thick, considerably heavy book was removed from the overstocked shelves across the room, and the girl petted it lovingly as she returned to the laptop. A great deal many bookmarks stuck out of the top and she counted them absentmindedly as she made herself comfortable. Then she opened it and started flipping through.
"Let's see...let's see....here it is! Fantastical Fictionary Animation..."
She reached for her Harry Potter TM wand and pressed the button on the handle. It let out a swish and started flashing green. Satisfied she turned to the book at started to chant, waving the wand about around her laptop.
Contrary to the fantasy novels she'd read and movies she'd watched, there was nothing particularly epic or enchanting about casting spells; in fact, most were so disappointingly anti-climactic, a vast majority of the more 'romantic' spell-casters hung up their cloaks in light of such a discovery.
As it was, there was a crackling noise, very much similar the sound of a herd of beavers gnawing on a scrap of bubble wrap, and an excitable little pop.
The laptop started to glow aquamarine. The writer-slash-spell caster paused briefly to admire the colour before reading aloud from the word document.
"In the depths of the fantasy realm called Fanfiction, there reigned the mighty kingdom of Fandom, which was composed of many, many districts. Each district was different, vastly unique in its own way, but all were linked together by a type of magic called Fangirlism.
All together, these districts were kept distant from the real world, separated by the Fourth Wall, an entity that all at once spanned fathomless distances and yet slotted quite neatly into the space between the computer screen and the inner mechanics. Such an extraordinary thing was this Fourth Wall, few people knew how it worked...and even fewer how to breach it.
Such people were said to be In The Know.
Therefore it was exceedingly rare that the real world came into contact with the residents of Fandom kingdom, Fanfiction. Perhaps it was better that way.
Who knows?
However, most unfortunately for one particular resident of one particular district of Fandom, there was a humble author In The Know who desired their presence. Thus said author began to drag the poor bloke through the Fourth Wall and into the real world..."
Various detailed flowery descriptions followed, and quite suddenly, there was a gaping hole of nothing in the air before the bed and a man dropped out of it.
"Good evening, Mark."
The bespectacled ginger leapt almost a foot in the air at the sound of his name being drawled in a horrific mockery of a Russian accent.
"What...the....who are you? Where the fuck am I?!"
Lest Mark started screeching and woke the whole household, the writer snatched up her wand and prodded him with it when he flailed into her vicinity.
He slumped the floor, cross-legged, a vaguely dopey look marring his pleasant features.
"Muy name eez nut uf eeny impurtunce tu yuu..."
"Are we in Russia? Why is your accent so god awful?"
The stoned sounding voice of the seated man did nothing to cheer up the writer who sighed and quickly dropped the pretence.
"No, you're in Canada. I'm not actually Russian...I just like the accent. Plus I'm a little nervous...trying to break the ice and all that jazz...I'm I really that bad at the accent?"
"Yes."
The writer sighed again.
"Damn."
"I think I should be freaking out right now," Mark commented placidly. "I don't know why I feel so calm...this is a weird situation. I should be worried..."
"Nah, you can relax. I won't hurt yah. I just prodded you with a...uh...uh...traditional Japanese Soothing Rod...yeah...just one touch and the stress melts away..."
Her friends were always telling her she was too dirty minded and the writer restrained herself from adding on some additional innuendo.
"Oh...I see."
"Yeah, if I poke you again you'll stop being so dopey...promise me you won't freak out when I poke you again?"
"'kay."
The prod was delivered and Mark seemed to straighten up, the tranquil expression on his face giving way to wary suspicion.
"Why am I here?"
"Look, I know we've just met, but I need you to do me a favour."
"...wha? Like what?"
"You're a singer right?"
He opened his mouth to reply...
"Stupid question! Of course you do. So, yeah, would you mind coming to school with me tomorrow and sing Happy Birthday to my friend?"
"......you kidnapped me.....from New York....using some weird freaky, totally un-Bohemian magic shit....jut so I could...sing Happy Birthday to your friend."
"She's a huge fan."
"...are...are you insane! No way!"
"Okay, technically you wouldn't have to sing Happy Birthday..."
"Oh?"
"...more like Happy Belated Birthday."
"Jesus, what the hell is wrong with you?!"
"...it's late, I'm tired, I'm sick with a cold, I have school tomorrow, I forgot to get my friend a card, let alone a present, and I'm attempting to make up for it and you're giving me difficulty!"
"Difficulty?! God damn right I'll give you difficulty!"
"Keep your voice down! My sister's in the next room..."
A menacingly robust tune started out of nowhere and Mark started speaking in tandem.
"You've somehow kidnapped me from my home, transported me all the way to Canada...in the middle of the night, and you expect me not to be difficult?! Oh the presumption, oh the self-delusion..."
The writer tackled him violently and the music cut off with the terrible screechy sound of a record skipping.
"No singing!" she hissed. "You are no longer in the musical universe! Here that laws of "Oh-fuck-it-I'll-just-go-sing-as-loud-as-I-want-on-a-balcony-at-three-am-in-the-morning-and-my-sleeping-neighbours-will-wake-up-and-join-me-instead-of-lynching-me" do not apply! You will wake my parents, they will find you, they will have you arrested and you will go to jail and get bum-raped! That scarf screams bum-rape Marky, believe me...I'm a fanfiction writer...I know!"
Mark glared up at her over the hands she'd clamped firmly over his mouth.
"If I take my hands away and promise not to poke you with my wand, do you swear you won't sing again?"
A rather unnecessarily filthy glare was given along with the acquiescent nod. The writer removed her hands.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome," Mark growled.
"Okay, here's the plan; I'll set my alarm really early...when it goes off, you'll hide in the boiler room until my parents leave for work and my sister catches the bus for school...then you and I will hijack the truck in the garage and you can drive me to school...once there...we glomp my friend and sing to her...sound good?!"
Mark gaped.
"You really are tired and ill aren't you?"
"Don't judge me!"
"How could you possibly be in your right mind to think this could work?!"
"It will work! Have faith in your Bohemian awesomeness and my unfailing pig-headedness!"
"No! I refuse!"
And with that Mark sat down and faced the wall, pouting furiously. The young author glared at his back before she relented and sighed wearily.
Okay, maybe mom does have a point with my whole inconvenient spontaneity thing...
"Ok, tell you what...I'll let you go home tonight. You don't have to come to school with me tomorrow and sing to my friend."
Mark turned around slowly.
"What?"
"Am I speaking in gibberish? Seriously dude. You can go home tonight. Forget what I said before, okay?"
Mark stared at her for a few more minutes then leapt to his feet.
"You serious?"
"Yeah."
"...what's the catch?"
The writer was going to—key phrase: going to—say nothing, but then her eyes alighted on it. Mark shuffled backwards at the sudden appearance of what could only be described as a 'rape face'.
"I want your scarf...please."
Mark recoiled fractionally and fingered the woollen edge of his beloved winter accessory.
"Well...I dunno..."
"I'll pay you...ten dollars for that scarf."
"Um..."
"Twenty."
"I suppose..."
"Twenty-five's all I've got bro."
Mark still hesitated. The writer swallowed her pride.
"I'll write shitloads of fanfiction wgere you find an AIDs-free babe into movie-making and has a bicycle fetish..."
Mark squared his shoulders and unwrapped the scarf from his neck.
"Done deal, sister."
They shook on it, the goods were traded, and Mark was sent off home with a smile.
-----X3-----
The next morning, there was no recollection of an alarm clock in the slightest and the young writer woke with her sister screaming at her and the bus not five minutes away down the road. She had to move like greased lightning—with extra grease—to get ready on time.
She was smiling though.
Because as far as birthday presents went, no one could trump the Marky Scarfy.
-----X3-----
Holy mother of Shiz; I'm a horrible horrible person. Shoot me and put me out of my misery. *_*
In other news: I love you Starla! 8D Please don't be ashamed of me!