Introduction to "The Ambitions of an Androgyne": As with any collaborative writing endeavor, Subreality is not uniformly consistent. One of the more interesting points of disagreement concerns the identity of the person working behind the bar at the Subreality Café: sometimes (as noted in the introduction to "T'ā-T'ā, Manager") it's Major Mapleleaf, sometimes it's someone known simply as "the Bartender", and (most baffling of all) sometimes it's a character who is identified as the Bartender, but who is referred to throughout by gender-neutral pronouns, implying that it is really the Manager. The following story is an attempt to reconcile all these disparate opinions.

This story was posted on the SCML on 26 May 2007, and makes reference to the X-Men fandom.


With an expression of sublime fatigue on her musteline face, presumptive Collegium salutatorian Erineae oozed into the Subreality Café and hopped up onto one of the tall stools by the bar.

"Thirty-five millilitres of straight Scotch," she said. "And put wings on it, barperson."

The last word was not, as it might have seemed, a ludicrous concession to political correctness, but a simple acknowledgement of a fact: The current Bartender of the Subreality Café was neither a man nor a woman. Indeed, the closer one studied the Bartender's face for specific sexual indicators, the fewer details of that face one retained upon looking away.

This extraordinary person frowned sympathetically as he/she poured out Erineae's drink. "Tough day?" he/she enquired.

"Not tough, exactly," said Erineae. "I've simply had one of the most miserable testing experiences of my life, and now I intend to wipe it from my memory as quickly as possible."

"Ah," said the Bartender. "Let me guess. Tristram?"

"I don't know what the man wants from me," said Erineae. "I'm not a warrior Muse. I acknowledge that. If he wants to persecute someone for not living up to his expectations of gritty, realistic battle scenes, why doesn't he pick someone who at least feigns competence in that department?"

"If that's the way you feel," the Bartender said, "why did you sign up for his class in the first place? I'm pretty sure Advanced Battle-Scene Inspiration is still an optional part of the Collegium curriculum."

Erineae sighed. "I don't know why," she said. "Because it was there, I guess. I'll sign up for just about anything if it stands still long enough. It's like a tic or something."

"Mm," said the Bartender. "Well, nothing could be fairer than that."

There was a moment of silence as Erineae lapped up her drink. Under ordinary circumstances, the Bartender would have drifted over to the other side of the bar and tended to another customer, but, as it happened, the only other customer was a Wolverine fictive who had been sitting at the far end of the bar for the past three days, and who had started growling ominously every time the Bartender had attempted to engage him in conversation. For obvious reasons, the androgyne was not eager to tend to this particular costumer, and so he/she was searching for an excuse to remain hovering over Erineae.

"This is your last year at the Collegium, isn't it?" he/she said.

Erineae nodded. "Unless Headmistress Calliope decides to keep me back a year," she said, "which doesn't seem likely at the moment, but with someone of her… ah… mercurial temperament, you never really know."

The Bartender acknowledged the truth of this statement. "Still," he/she said, "supposing that everything stays on track, what do you plan to be doing once you've left the I.C.'s hallowed halls?"

Erineae sighed with all the weariness of a college student who has heard that question five dozen times and still doesn't have a presentable answer. "I don't know," she said. "I suppose I'll find a place to live, some apartment or something on the Far East Side; then I'll find some good, steady work that doesn't require opposable thumbs – tour guide at the RSIA, maybe – and then I'll just wait for that magical day when a Writer calls my name, I run to his arms, and my life begins in earnest."

"Sounds like a plan," said the Bartender approvingly.

"How about you?" said Erineae. Then she laughed, and shook her head. "Wow, what a stupid question," she said. "I must really be tired, if I'm asking the Bartender of the Subreality Café what his/her plans for the future are."

The Bartender arched his/her eyebrows. "You don't think I have any?" he/she said.

Erineae frowned. "Well, why would you need them?" she said. "You're a fixture of the Subreal universe. If there's anyone who doesn't need to take care for the morrow, it's you."

"Yes, I suppose so," said the Bartender. "Just the same, I…" He/she shot a furtive glance around the nearly empty Café, and lowered his/her voice to a whisper. "Can you keep a secret?" he/she said.

"Sure," said Erineae, thinking of the Collegium librarian, Dr. Crow. "Why?"

The Bartender leaned toward her, and lowered his/her voice still further. "Well, I wouldn't like this to go any further," he/she said, "but there's a good chance that I might become the Manager of this Café fairly soon."

If he had said that there was a good chance that the bar might become a Komodo dragon fairly soon, Erineae would not have been more startled. In fact, she would have been considerably less startled, since the nature of Subreal matter was notoriously mercurial, but running gags, once they were established, were all but eternal.

"Is that possible?" she whispered.

"Certainly," said the Bartender. "While discarding or ignoring Café staff members is an artistic failing, having them retire is simply another plot development – and the current Manager has been dropping numerous hints lately that that plot development will be taking place quite soon, probably within the month. After that, it's just a question of who takes over his old job – and, to date, the Cook hasn't expressed a whole lot of interest."

"Huh," said Erineae. "So who's going to get your job, then? The Bartender's Assistant?"

The Bartender hesitated. "Well, that's what everybody expects to happen," he/she said, "but to tell the truth, there's a minor fictive out of Alpha Flight that I've got my eye on – a fellow named Mapleleaf."

"Major Mapleleaf?" said Erineae, surprised. "The guy who ran the pretzel stand at the St. Amand's Day Festival last year?"

"That's him," said the Bartender. "By all accounts, he brews a mean martini – and it'd be nice to have someone working here who had a real name for a change. So what's probably going to happen is that the B.A.'ll be behind the bar for a few weeks while Mapleleaf moves into the neighborhood and gets settled, and then he'll take over from there."

"Oh," said Erineae. "Well, good luck to all three of you, then."

She might have said more, but at that juncture the bat-winged doors of the Café burst open, and a red-haired tornado burst inside.

"There you are, Jess!" said Jasmine North. "Where have you been all this time?"

Erineae blinked. "Exactly where I told you I was going to be," she said. "Sinking into peaceful oblivion with the assistance of our able Bartender and Mr. Glen Livet."

"Well, you're going to have to take a break from that," said Jasmine. "A life-and-death situation has just come up. The fate of nations hangs in the balance. Reality as we know it is in imminent peril."

Erineae rolled her eyes. "You lost your Musal Theory notes, didn't you?"

"Yes!" Jasmine half-shrieked. "I had them all nicely laid out on my bed, alphabetized, color-coded, and numbered in order of importance, and then a Dicraeosaurus poked his head into my window, snagged them with his trunk, and ate them!"

Erineae sighed. "See, Jasmine, this is why sane people don't become Plot Twist Muses," she said. "Life is hard enough without your subconscious mind doing these kinds of things to you."

"Erineae, are you going to just stand there and pontificate at me, or are you going to help me?" Jasmine demanded. "I have a ten-page MT essay due by 5:00 tomorrow afternoon! If I don't scrape at least a C, Professor Wiseone will flunk and/or dismember me! I am in desperate straits here! Remember the Code of the Woosters!"

"Okay, okay," said Erineae. "Calm down. I'm sure Dr. Crow will let you back into the library if I explain the situation to him." There was something significant in her tone as she said this, and the Bartender suspected there was more to that assurance than a casual listener might have thought.

Jasmine let out a deep sigh. "You are a lifesaver, Erineae," she said.

"Yes, I know," said Erineae. "Well, Bartender, I guess I'll be seeing you later. Don't take any wooden nickels."

She leapt down from her stool, and she and Jasmine rushed out of the Café. The Bartender waved goodbye to them, and then, with the reluctance of one whose alternatives have been exhausted, walked over to the far end of the bar where the Wolverine fictive was sitting.

"All right, sir, look," he/she said. "Since you've gotten here, you've had three Vodka Collinses, two Cosmopolitans, eight large glasses of mulled gin, and twenty-seven tankards of Guinness. Now, I understand you have a healing factor, but unless you also have free access to Scrooge McDuck's money bin, you might want to think about calling it quits."

The Wolverine looked up at him/her, bleary-eyed but still grimly lucid. "What're ya gonna do, huh?" he said. "Ya gonna throw me out? Yer boss ain't gonna like that. Way I heard it, me and my replicas in this dimension got him under a pretty heavy debt of gratitude."

This was true enough. Before the Manager of the Subreality Café had attained his current position, he had been a bit player in a New Mutants fanfic whose life Wolverine had saved, and, as a result, Wolverines had pretty much gotten a free pass at the Café ever since his accession. This had been known to cause plenty of trouble, but there was no talking him out of it.

The Bartender was well aware of this, but he/she nonetheless intended to try and talk his/her way around it. Before he/she could begin, however, Leonard the Subreality Telephone began to ring, and, with a sigh, he/she went over to the little hook on the pub's east wall and picked up its receiver.

"Yeah, Subreality Café, what is it?" he/she said.

There was a pause.

"You're kidding," said the Bartender. "He just decided that five minutes ago?"

Another pause, and then the Bartender glanced over at his final customer and grinned. "Well, isn't that convenient," he/she said. "Tell him thank you for me, would you?"

The person on the other end presumably agreed, and the Bartender hung up Leonard's receiver, still smiling broadly.

"Who was that?" said the Wolverine.

Without answering, the Bartender walked over to a spot next to the shot-glass cabinet and pressed a button on the intercom.

"Bouncer?" he/she said. "This is your new Manager speaking. We've got an adamantium-clawed lowlife in here that needs taking care of…

Disclaimer: The Subreality Café is Kielle's. The Collegium and Tristram are Yasmin M.'s. The Manager (who was once the Bartender), the Bartender (who was once the Bartender's Assistant), Leonard the Subreality Telephone (who I suspect was once the Ruler of Oz), the Bouncer (who will always be the Bouncer), and the Cook (who knows) are Falstaff's. Wolverine is Stan Lee's. Dr. Crow is Tracy Sue's. Major Mapleleaf is Scott Lobdell's. Jasmine is CG's. Everything else is mine.