Operation: Muse Overload
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the worlds my muses come from. But I do own Charlie and Sitnalta (unfortunately).
Author's Notes: Enjoy! Reviews welcome.
I stared at my screen. There was a half-finished story there, but I didn't know what to do with the ending. I yawned. If I could just shut my eyes for a minute . . .
"What be wrong, chere?"
"I can't finish this story," I said absently. Then I took a good look at who was standing beside me. "Huh?" I asked intelligently.
Gambit sighed. "I be a figment of y' imagination, chere," he said. "I'm not de real Gambit. I'm y' X-Men muse."
"That explains it. Am I dreaming?"
"Oui, chere."
"Any other muses in there?" I asked.
"I'm your Babylon 5 muse," said Lyta, appearing next to me. "I'm the reason you finished one of your stories."
My Stargate SG-1, Matrix, Dark Angel, Night World, James Bond, Andromeda, Star Trek, Thunderbirds, Star Wars, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Heavy Gear muses all appeared, all talking at once.
"ENOUGH!" yelled a female voice. They fell silent. "Now, it's nice that you want your stories finished, but all she wanted was to get her X-Men story done. So I suggest you wait until she calls you up again." The woman who had been talking looked about thirty, with shoulder-length brown hair and blue eyes. "Hello, Bluestar," she said.
"Hello - who are you?"
She laughed. "Don't you recognise one of your own creations? I'm Charlotte."
"Quake," I whispered.
"That's right." She turned to Gambit. "Remy, you help her finish her story. Gotta go. Sitn needs to be decaffeinated again."
"Decaffeinated?" I asked, even more confused.
"Sitnalta is another muse of yours, and addicted to coffee. I've got to prevent her inspiring something like Ever Survive again."
"Right," I said faintly. "Uh, what are you my muse of?"
"Your original fiction, of course," she said. She gave me a friendly grin. "See you around."
Then I was left with Gambit. "Okay, chere. Which story did you have in mind?"
" 'If Only.' "
He smiled approvingly. "One of your better stories, Remy t'ink. So . . . finishin' it . . ."
I bolted upright at my computer. "Whoa . . . really weird dream there, girl," I muttered to myself. But weird or not, I now had the inspiration to finish my story.
Half an hour later . . .
I leaned back from finishing my story. "Thanks, Remy," I said to the empty room.
I could have sworn I heard the words, "You're welcome, chere."
