AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
I, Melanie T'Starlight von Goldensdawn, was sitting in a compartment on the Hogwarts Express, across from Legolas, whose razorfang eyes were clamped ever so tight by the rusting rustic lead shutters of urban despair, Thatcher's grimacing reprise, pupils gleaming darkly like a circular storm-raged ocean disk among the gods' misplaced shards of lightning fragments on a lenticular theatre set. He was in that moment engaged in the telepathically fatiguing process of dissecting a primordial exoladybug in Vanuatu, so that he might glean some spark of valuable insight into the nature of these dimly-glowing elusive transdimensional beings who held together the very titanium elastic bands of the burgeoning universal sigh.
I sipped on my soy mocha, admiring my bae's emotional hardiwork, when before the very eyes of my fluttering fingertips I did witness the temporary metamorphosis of Legolas from the handsome woodland elf with whom I was of late copulously engaged, into the form of two human beings hitherto unknown to my conscious soul. Curiously, while the transformation was in process it appeared as though the transitory form of this being was in fact comprised of seventeen hundred of the very same species of ladybug Legolas had just the minute before been hacking at remotely by means of telepathically controlling a sentient scalpel located in an entirely different continent from the one we were in now, which was Europe.
The two persons, once the transmorphosis was complete, gazed upon me knowingly, both of them seeming to possess an almost suffocating air of awareness in regards to this temporally fractured universe of which I am (it would seem) an intrinsically irreplaceable element.
The male, whose name is/was/will be Alek door, who is quite tall, who has a head full of gleaming blond hairs like an autumnal morning, who is all jeans and flannel shirts and bruises and malfunctioned ears, who speaks with a mild Australian accent, spake: "Hey, Melanie. You're probably wondering what's going on here. We're writers."
The female, whose name is/was/will be Saya, who is shorter, who has a better fashion sense than her associate, who wears an absorbing pair of dark eyes upon her eyes, who wears a hijab, who speaks with a cool Chicago accent, spake: "If there's anything you want to know about this vision quest upon which you find yourself eternally trudging, or the reasons for your myriad of trust issues and emotional fickleness, well...now would be the time to ask."
I inhaled deeply, sucking a stray battalion of metaphysical urban chainsaws deep into my being, then releasing them into the heady multiverse of worlds like an unchained kite, that they may soar through the air and eventually collide, fatally, with the chest or skull or fingertips of some hapless passerby, embedding themselves mercilessly. Then I stared at the plastic cup of soy mocha I still had clasped 'tween my bony fingers, almost empty it was of the sweet liquid I had over the course of the last half-hour been idly sipping upon.
"Yeah, could I get a refill?" I asked pensively, releasing yet another fatal flurry of chainsaws upon the writers at point-blank range.
