Foster's Fanfiction
Firstly, some context, I have wanted to publish this for months, but I decided against it due to Mortal Coil still being in the works. I have decided anyway to wing it and just publish this anyway. This is very experimental for me, and it's quite different to anything else I have published. I tend to have feasible plots that could happen, this could never happen though, at least in my opinion. Before you read you need to know that there is nothing supernatural about this fic, at times it may seem like there is, but there is nothing ghostly or even slightly paranormal about this story. I can't guarantee it's going to be everyone's cup of tea; however it's something I've wanted to do for a while. One thing I want to make clear, there is an OC introduced here, and I have read enough bad fics to know when it sounds like the OC is going to steal the heart of a canon character, THAT WILL NOT HAPPEN HERE. There is a reason for a lot of things in this fic, and there is a reason for Frankie's tendency to trust and like the OC, and it's not romantic. On an unrelated note, there's a reference to my favourite Video-game of all time in here, if anyone gets the game and reference I will come up with a cool sounding title for them.
So without further ado, take my hand, and let's enter the dreamscape.
Mr Maravallo's Marvellous Dreamscape
Figmentology was, in its broadest terms the study of imaginary friends and imagination. It was pioneered by two scientists who found Coco on a desert island. Frankie was only very small when all this happened, however as she grew so did the practise of figmentology, until it was officially recognised as a science. So when it was added to the available courses at various universities, Frankie knew what she was going to study. Getting onto the course was no problem, she had lived her entire life in a house populated by imaginary friends, she was a figmentologist's dream.
However just because you could study it at university it doesn't mean that it isn't ridiculed, the term, 'mickey mouse degree' had been tossed about very frequently where her studies were concerned. And Frankie even started to feel inadequate, it was understandable really. She would be handing in a paper entitled, 'The effects of Traumatic Experience on the Composition of Imaginary Friends in Terms of corporeality and stability'. Even though she was really chuffed with herself for finishing such a difficult topic, she would see the ones written up by biology or chemistry students. 'The effects of penicillin on the enzyme responsible for synthesising peptidoglycan in the cell walls of prokaryotic microorganisms' was just one example.
But Frankie worked hard, and she came out with a top-notch degree, she was officially a figmentologist, she could go onto field work, figment composition studies, figment counselling, she could do anything. However Frankie decided to stay right at Foster's, the puppy-eyes of her grandmother, and the unconvincing lies of Mr Herriman that the house doesn't need her sealed that fate. They tried to convince her to go and make something of herself, to be renowned, and Frankie was tempted by the thought. 'Frankie Foster was a pioneering figmentologist who made amazing leaps in the field', that thought was appealing, she could imagine it being taught in universities across the globe.
But, at her bare bones, it wasn't in Frankie's nature to be selfish. She was happy at Foster's, and she could allow herself a private smugness at the fact that she had a stellar-quality science degree. But, taking all of this into consideration, her years of hard work and study, her sharp mind, her intelligence. None of this could go even half-way to describing the situation she had found herself in.
Frankie was sat atop a cloud, not just a white object, not just a fluffy object, but an actual, proper cloud. Frankie would be lying if she said she hadn't ever wondered what a cloud felt like, but she would never have guessed it was like this. The feeling was like, a marshmallow, she knew what clouds were and they most certainly weren't marshmallows. She wasn't on one solitary cloud either; the entire landscape was made out of the white pseudo-campfire treats.
This wasn't a flat ground; it incorporated huge mountain rangers in the distance. Sweeping calderas adorned the bleached panorama, its consistent blankness was further emphasised by its enormous scale. Behind her was the only defining feature in the oppressive blankness, a large cylinder of thin brass bars all of which spaced out, Frankie could get her hand through the gaps but not her body. The circular cage contained a disc on the floor…or cloud. It was made of the same metal as the bars than housed it, and there was a slit down the middle, it looked like the two halves of the circle could part. There were hinges and a lock on one section of the bars, so it was clear someone could get in or out.
Frankie had been here for a day, when she had first woken up she had pinched her own arm frantically in an effort to wake herself up from what she justifiably through to be a dream. Needless to say her flesh-squeezing endeavour was less than fruitful. She at first became angry, she had screamed at the top of her lungs, the cry of anguish simply slipped over the bleached mountains and dissipated into nothingness. She had then got scared, she had tried to punch and claw her way through the cloud layer, however any headway she made was cancelled out by the fact that more marshmallow would simply take the place of that she managed to clear. Eventually apathy set in, and as fear eroded, simply irritation took its place, she was bored, her throat was sore, and through all of her exertion she didn't smell that great either.
And so when she finally sat down, and did her best to relax, Frankie found it surprisingly easy to do so. Maybe it was the admittedly comfortable clouds, maybe it was the gorgeous blue sky, or maybe it was the fact that for the first time in years she had managed to get some silence. Whatever it was, Frankie was almost sad that she hadn't simply tried chilling out before.
She finally heard a noise, that wasn't the sound of far off wind; it was a beep, and unmistakable and robotic sounding beep. She wheeled around to confront the noise's source, well she couldn't really wheel around since she was standing on a gloopy white clump, but the general effect was the same. The bronze disc was parting; both halves slid and disappeared into two rival slots, so that now there was simply a dark pit where the circle once was.
Frankie suddenly felt very unnerved, she was pretty sure she was about to come face to face with whomever, or whatever brought her here. True to her belief, she could hear something coming up the chute, it was fairly quick, and she heard no signs of it stopping. What was to come out of that damn pit, a multi-tentacled super-beast, a highly intelligent ostrich with thirteen mouths? What Frankie had not expected was for a man in a shabby looking black suit and white tie to emerge on a platform, and that is exactly what happened. He had messy, thick grey hair, as well as a silver, short and scraggly beard. To put it bluntly, he was not the unfathomable being of horror Frankie had expected.
"Hello," he greeted cheerfully, he was well spoken, and had an English accent like Herriman, however he was less aristocratic in the way he talked, articulate yet not off-puttingly so. He took a key out from the inside of his suit jacket and opened the gate, and moved towards her. Frankie instinctively stepped back, she had no reason to trust this man, but all bets were off considering she was standing on a landscape of cloud. He stood in front of her and held his hand out to nowhere in particular, it looked as if he was signalling some unseen person to hand him something. White vapour gathered around his hand, and suddenly it grouped and materialised into… a clipboard. Not a golden dagger, not a miniature dragon, not a magic wand, not Excalibur, no nothing interesting, simply a clipboard.
"Frances Foster?" He enquired, before checking off something with a pen he had summoned in a similar fashion to the object he was currently writing on.
"Allow me to introduce myself-"
"Don't you think you should tell me where the hell I am?" Frankie found her voice and used it to snap at the man, who simply smiled,
"Don't just stand there fucking grinning, where is this, where am I?"
"Frances-"
"Don't call me that,"
"OK then, Miss Foster, I really think you should come with me,"
"I'm not going anywhere with you, I don't know you, and you've literally just come from the inside of a cloud." He considered that for a moment, then shrugged and replied,
"Well Miss Foster, you can either come with me, or stay here, I think there may be a telephone about five thousand miles that way." There was something about the way he spoke, she recalled PC Dean Malkovich, his sneering and patronising tone, he would have said that sentence to put down and make someone feel small. However this man seemed different, there was something accessible about him, he spoke with a light hearted and appealing demeanour. Frankie had every right to feel lost, annoyed and violated. But against all odds, and even if she wasn't prepared to admit it to herself, she felt better for having this man with her.
"I can't promise you'll like what you'll hear, but if you come down with my lift with me, I will tell you everything. Or you can stay here and eat all the marshmallow you want." She looked him up and down sceptically, but she wasn't going to rot in the great cloud plains, so she nervously and reluctantly followed him to the lift. They moved through the now open cage and onto the platform the man had arrived on.
A funny feeling hit Frankie's stomach as they began to move down, she looked up and felt a twinge of fear as the bronze disc reformed above them, shutting her in blackness. Frankie felt the man put his hand on her shoulder, a gesture she immediately shook off. However just before the unrelenting inky blackness became unbearable, amber lights that lined the edge of the platform buzzed into life. Frankie looked around, and initially thought the walls of the chute to be bare, but that assumption was immediately discredited when a group of white lights came into view, and below them, more adorned the dull walls of the shaft. The lights spelled out words, revealing a mantra, immortalised in white light in the uncomfortable darkness.
All good things,
Of this Earth,
Flow,
Into,
The Dreamscape.
Frankie looked at her companion, his old features and scruffy beard were magnified in the dull light.
"Who are you?" He simply grinned at her, and he put his hand on her shoulders once again. This time thought the redhead didn't shrug him off so readily,
"You can call me Mr Maravallo, and this… is my dreamscape." Frankie didn't know what he was gesturing to, that was until they left the shaft and light exploded into the redhead's vision. She immediately clamped her hands to her eyes, but when she was ready; Frankie took a peep through her fingers, and gasped.
Madame Foster hated this coffee, any hot drink made by a machine was going to be terrible, that fact was as established as gravity. She put a couple of dull coins in and got a tea, that being for Herriman. The rabbit had always insisted that tea should be taken in a proper china cup to be enjoyable, well he was getting a flimsy polystyrene one today. Madame Foster had been to this building many times in her life, and repulsive machine-made hot drinks were as fundamental a part of it as the very brickwork. She encountered her tuxedo-clad imaginary friend with his head in his hands. His top hat lay unnoticed and uncared about in the adjacent seat. Both creation and creator hated these damn seats, an uncomfortable mould of hard plastic. Men and women in pale green gowns hobbled past in varying states of ailment. Mr Herriman and Madame Foster sipped their respective drinks in relative silence, before the old woman finally asked,
"What did they say Herriman, will she ever get out, will she be normal again?" Herriman sighed, and got up. He moved over to a window, through it was a young woman in a bed; her face was an obscene mess of bruises. There was a thick wrap of bandages around her head, masking her fiery red hair, well what remained now. To get to her head wounds properly the surgeons had had to shave her, if it weren't for the dry-wipe marker inscriptions on the door to her room, no-one would have known who she was. There was a clear tube up her nose, keeping her full of precious oxygen, keeping her alive. There were bags hanging from a rack, each dispensing a vital liquid into her broken body. Blood, plasma, IV, anything to keep the former redhead's strained heart beating. A heart monitor beeped steadily, each tone representing systole and diastole, and showing she hadn't slipped away yet.
Madame Foster and Herriman weren't allowed in, just in case doctors needed to rush in. Herriman put a furred arm around his Madame, there was no need to answer her question, it was at best an attempt to stave of the silence, lest they actually have to consider what may happen if the young woman slipped away. The hospital buzzed and chirped around them, doctors chatted while strolling through the crowded corridors, however to the rabbit and his creator they had no bearing, no importance. They were ghosts flitting unevenly through a splintered and undeserved reality, no amount of noise or accidental jostling would increase their noticeability.
These precious few moments watching the steady rise and fall of the young woman's chest were crucial, because there was a real chance Frankie could die in there, and there was no way in this life or the next that Madame Foster and Mr Herriman wouldn't be as close as possible in the meantime. Maybe she wouldn't last the night, maybe she was brain-dead, maybe she was already gone and the old woman and her figment's psyches had just sent them into a blissful fantasy to compensate. None of this needed to be thought about, or even be considered. Because right now, they were there, and Frankie was alive, and in their own odd little way, they were all together, even if it could have been the very last time.