A/N: Enjoy this book! I certainly enjoyed writing it!
Name: Daphne Anderson
Age: 24
Location: Chicago, Illinois.
"What? That ending sucked!"
The book was thrown unceremoniously across the room, pages fluttering in the unexpected flight, and landed with a loud whack as it struck the opposite wall. She sat up in bed, chocolate brown eyes glittering angrily as she looked at the orange book which was currently getting its pages ruined under the crushing weight of its own spine. She folded her arms and pouted, furrowing her brow as she sulked about the ending of her favorite series. Moodily, she got up and went to the mirror, still talking to herself. "She ended up with Ron? She's such an idiot! Can't she see how shallow Ron is?" she snapped, running her fingers through her brutally short, spiked, bleached blonde hair. She scowled at herself in the mirror and went over to the book. Despite her now hate for a certain fictional ginger-haired wizard, she did like the series as a whole, and no book deserved to have dog-eared pages. Smoothing out the creases with her thumb, she slid it back into its space on her bookshelf and marched into the kitchen, still growling the odd obscenity over the sappy, sentimental, feel-good ending. She flung open the refrigerator and took out the milk gallon, cradling it in one hand as she vented her frustrations. "He's not even good looking! And they killed off the one, repeat, one character that wasn't a total Mary Sue! Agh! She's such an idiot! How can they just kill off Snape like that when he's actually good?"
She swigged the milk straight from the container, still scowling heavily. Capping the plastic jug, she shoved it into the refrigerator and marched back and forth in the kitchen, throwing up her hands every now and then to accentuate her displeasure over the ending of the final installment of her favorite series. A low hum of pain began building at the nape of her neck, and she knew that before long a migraine would have her puking her guts out and crying as she clutched her head on the sofa. Whenever she was angry over the ending of a book, she usually got a killer headache or a migraine. She could feel the traditional throb of a migraine growing, and she realized this one was going to be a doozy if she didn't stop shouting. With a low snarl, she opened the cabinet and rooted around for some aspirin. The tiny bottle fell to one side as her hands scrabbled blindly in the cabinet, and she snatched at it viciously, trying hard not to clench her jaw against the gathering pain and the injustice of the book ending. She dry-swallowed two aspirin and waited, leaning heavily on the sink as she looked out over her perfectly manicured lawn. There was one large dandelion taunting her smack dab in the middle of it that she would have to spray later, but right now she was still venting.
A wave of nausea passed over her and her already pale face blanched as she gagged. Dizziness washed over her like the crash of the sea, and she sank to her knees. Colors and textures were blurring together, blending and mixing. Dizzy spells were not uncommon for her during one of her theatrical migraines, but this one was spectacularly bad. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and the colors increased until she was looking at a sickening light show of whizzing neon colors and shapes, weird noises and alien sounds as her body twitched spasmodically. Briefly, her mind grappled for control and she wondered belatedly if she was going to pass out. Then everything went blessedly, velvety black and she sank to the floor, her head lolling to one side.
Name: Madison Poole
Age: 19
Location: Boston, Massachusetts.
"Die, alien scum! Die, die, die!"
Her fingers tapped the keys rapidly as her jittery blue eyes bounced eagerly from one animated alien foe to the next. The computer beeped loudly, the background music speeding up as she passed onto the next level. She would have whooped and punched the air with both tiny fists, except she was too busy tackling a six foot tall purple alien with horns sticking out of his shoulders. "Hah, Master Gue, take that! Eat my slime grenade!" One hand darted out and captured a sweating glass of lemonade as she sucked eagerly at the straw, her eyes never leaving the screen as she manipulated the keyboard with one hand. Her frizzy blonde-brown hair, neatly divided into two thick pigtails in the back of her head, grew frizzier in the heat of the computer. Finally, there was an explosion of beeping and whistling, and fireworks boomed across the screen. She collapsed back into her swivel chair, beaming at herself for beating the final level for the third time that afternoon. "Oh yeah! I am too good for words!" she crowed, and mentally patted herself on the back. "Nobody beats me at Attack Of The Slimy Aliens III!"
She got up and strutted into the dining room, nearly tripping over one of the three cats which were always lounging around in inconvenient places. Her mother barely looked up from her bill paying as her daughter pranced into the room, beaming and pushing her glasses farther up her nose and looking extremely smug. For a moment, she debated over interrupting her mother to let her know that she was, without a doubt, the best person at computer games ever, then decided against it. Her mom would only get angry if she did. Instead, she flung open the cabinet an took out the jar of marshmallow fluff, then rummaged around in the silverware drawer for a spoon. Fluff straight out of the jar was best, and even better after kicking some major alien butt. She slurped at the gooey treat for a moment, latching onto the metal spoon until it was devoid of any white traces of sugar. "Don't spoil your dinner," her mother said automatically, tapping away at the calculator.
"Okay." she answered without putting up a fight. She managed to snatch one more spoonful of fluff before sliding the jar back into the shelf and going outside into the brisk October air, breathing in the crisp scents of autumn. She had never been much of an outdoorsy person, but six hours straight in front of a computer screen ignites a desire for fresh air like no other. But there was another scent too, something deeper and more acrid, stinging the inside of her nose and eyes. Smoke, perhaps? But it was making her head go fuzzy, and she stumbled for the porch railing. She was suddenly sick to her stomach. What was going on? She opened her mouth to call for her mother, her father, anyone, but a strangled grunt was all that came out. She toppled to her knees with a little squeak and passed out, multicolored waves spilling over her and slipping her into a balmy cocoon of darkness.
Name: Michael Rodriguez
Age: 21
Location: New York, New York
"Just one, please?"
He tried his best C'mon, man face on the pudgy shop owner, and was not surprised when the fat walrus of a man told him to beat it. "Fine, my man. But you're missing out on some A-class action right here." he said, then strutted to the door, his lanky frame moving smoothly as he paraded outside. Once he was out of sight of the shop, he dropped the swagger and turned up the collar of his leather jacket. This was a bad neighborhood, and if anyone caught sight of his swirling black dragon tattoo on the back of his neck, a gang would have him sliced, diced, and put on ice before you could say capeesh. Not that the tattoo meant he was part of a gang, or anything. It just looked cool. The ladies loves tattoos, or so he thought. He was God's gift to women everywhere. He shivered and nestled himself deeper into his scarred leather jacket. The stiff breeze had turned unexpectedly cold, and it was snapping an undetectable rose in his dark cheeks.
He pounded up the steps to his small apartment and flung open the cheap plywood door that had once been halfheartedly secured by a tinfoil lock. Now it was open to anyone and everyone who wanted to root through his meager belongings. Not that he really had anything of value. Even his old laptop only worked when it felt like it and would probably only hock up a few bucks at the local pawn shop. But he needed it, because he wrote. Not professionally, or anything; the kids on the street would die laughing if they knew their tough friend actually wrote for a living. Nah, he just like to engage himself in writing. It was easy for him. But today he didn't feel like writing. Too much energy. Instead he went to the kitchen and took out a beer, tossing the can from each hand before he popped the lid and allowed the foam to splash over his hands. Absently licking the fizzy foam from his fingers, he sat on his battered recliner and opened the lid of his laptop. The warm beer was taking the edge off his nerves, and he felt his head buzzing slightly. Which was quite odd, in itself. Normally he didn't get a buzz until his third beer.
The buzzing increased, and the tips of his fingers began to get numb. He licked his dry lips and found his mouth was dry as cotton. The beer dropped from his numb hands, gurgling warm fizz over the rug as his head lolled back. The laptop crashed onto the floor in a tangle of wires as his legs began to twitch, and then everything went still as his eyes closed. Then he disintegrated, melting silently into the fabric of the air.
Name: Melody Miller
Age: 20
Location: Campbell County Correctional Facility
The harsh klaxon buzz emitted from the small red alarm over the door rang out once, twice, three times, and the prisoners got to their feet with a groan. The orange jumpsuits mobbed together like fish in a shoal, and they began shuffling down the hallways to their respective rooms. The term rooms had been slapped on their prison cells to make this place feel more permanent, less threatening. She snorted. A jail cell was a jail cell was a jail cell, in her opinion, and she had seen the interior of enough police stations, jails, cells, and offices to last any three people several lifetimes. The guard escorting them opened one of the doors and three prisoners were siphoned off. As the doors were opened, she threaded her way through the crowd and slipped inside her room, trying to avoid the eyes of Ashleigh, her roommate. She had fenced one of Ashleigh's multiple makeup kits and gotten $20 for it, a hefty price for some powder and mascara. Ashleigh had never forgiven her for it, and she was officially on the blonde's "angry list".
She flopped down on her bed and kicked one long leg in the air, the boredom already settling in. She hated solitary time. There was nothing to do; no innocent "firsties" (the term for first day inmates) to fleece, no hulking guard to bet on, nothing to do except sit here and wait until dinner was served. Officially, she was supposed to be reading one of the three thin books left behind by the last inmate, but she had better things to do. Planning her next chapter, for instance. For half an hour a day, the nonviolent prisoners were allowed to use a computer - no internet access, of course, but she had heavily bribed one of the wardens to publish her chapters on an internet fan fiction site once a week. She mentally arranged her files inside her head, then rolled over to face the wall. For some reason she was having trouble concentrating. Her head felt as though it were filled with cotton.
She allowed her legs to come crashing down on the mattress, and the turned her head to the side. Her vision was sliding in an out of focus. Colors and textures overlapped, and everything swirled into a haze. She twitched once, spasmodically, and then collapsed entirely, every muscle going slack. Then she simply vanished, slowly, one particle at a time. Ashleigh's scream drilled to the heavens.
Name: Isabella Hanover
Age: 14
Location: Washington, D.C.
She clicked through her emails, flat blue eyes scanning the stacks of mail she received every day. Bored, she began methodically deleting them one at a time, first giving it a cursory glance to ensure it wasn't anything important, then deleting it. She received an average of thirteen emails a day - actually, thirteen and a quarter emails a day, but who was counting? She was not the youngest grand chess master; but she was close. And the older she got, the better her skills at the chessboard increased. Which equaled more mail per day, more mail to delete per day. She popped her knuckles as she watched her inbox empty, a rare smile flickering at the edges of her mouth. Smiling wasted energy, and she needed all the energy she could get to make sure she was the best she could be on the chessboard. It was how she played, which was what made her so unpredictable; she didn't have a strategy, a plan, or anything when she moved her first piece. She adapted to anything they threw at her. She seemed to know the ripple effect of her actions better than anyone else, which was also what made her almost unbeatable.
She opened up a chess program, clicking through her multiple accounts - her first account, TrojanHorse959, was constantly challenged whenever she logged on; everyone wanted to beat the fourteen year old genius girl who had the highest IQ tested in North America. She clicked on one of her "princess" accounts - PrettySparkle77 - and began challenging witless humans who would never be able to beat her in their puny, meaningless lives. It didn't take her long to get accepted; how could someone refuse a challenge from a fourteen year old girl whose name was PrettySparkle77? They went into the battle unprepared; their second mistake. Their first mistake was accepting the challenge at all.
She was well into her first game and about to check him for the second time in sixteen moves when she felt a curious sensation sweep over her body. Pins and needles wavered in and out, like a bad radio frequency. She sat back, closing the game with one numb finger. Her vision doubled, then tripled, then began going blurry. She toppled off her chair with a small thump, and everything went solidly black.
Middle Earth
The scratching of the quill against parchment was the only noise in the small chamber. The two girls were seated across from each other on the small table, heads bent in mutual concentration. Their fluffy quills swirled patterns in the air as they wrote, occasionally pausing to shake out hand cramps. They had been writing for the past six hours, doing nothing but perfecting their character. Finally, the brunette leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. She was rather porky, with acne studded cheeks and small glasses perched on her nose, and her eyes were brown. She looked up at her friend, who was dangerously thin and twice as acne spotted, although she was blonde. "I'm done," the brunette said, finding her voice was hoarse from lack of use. "How about you?" The blonde leaned back in her chair and nibbled on her quill in a fit of nervous energy.
"Yeah. I'm worried it won't work. What if she has a flaw? She can't have a flaw. She has to be perfect. I think she's perfect." She studied her notes. "Tragic past, check. Unachievable beauty, check. Incredible fighting skills, check. Personality…" She looked up at her overweight friend. "We never decided on her personality. Spitfire? Angsty? Goddess? Wise?"
"Let's go with Goddess," her friend said. "Just write it in the margins. I think we're done. We're done, right?"
The blonde looked over her notes carefully, then nodded.
The Sue was completed, ready to be unleashed on an unsuspecting Fellowship.
