Title: Subreality Shenanigans
Author: The Duchess Of The Dark
Teaser: (post movie) Self-insertion silliness in the mould of the great Darth Maligna – love your parodies! bows reverently It's says on Maligna's bio that she's only 13! Damn… that makes me feel old… Read 'Prelude: A Canadian Tale' and 'Sticks & Stones', or you won't know who Helena Draven is!
Rating: PG-13 for a tiny bit of bad language and innuendo.
Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to their respective owners. I own not, you sue my regrettably pear-shaped English arse not. Helena Draven is mine.
Genre: Humour/parody. For dark fiction (not fanfic) visit my page at Illona's Place Vampires at www.bloodlust-uk.com/helenmurphyfiction.htm
Archive: Yes, but ask me first, please. the_duchess_of_the_dark@hotmail.com
Notes: Oh, my Logan is tall, dammit!! Can't be doing with short-arse men. Yes, believe it or not, I am a semi-professional writer by trade, but I've developed an alarming taste for fanfic!
***BIG NOTE: HELENA DRAVEN'S CODENAME IS RAVEN!!! THEY ARE ONE & THE SAME PERSON! SAME AS LOGAN IS WOLVERINE. I've been getting e-mails from confused people.***
*
The saloon-style door swung inwards, bringing with it a gust of chilly wind and a tangled ball of tumbleweed. Kicking it out of the way, wondering what tumbleweed was doing in New York, Wolverine stumped in and halted a few paces over the threshold. He was supposed to meet Helena Draven (a.k.a Raven) for a drink or twelve and a few games of pool. Exactly how she had found and contacted him remained a mystery, the last thing he knew, she was teaching at Mutant High. Puffing out his chest, which he knew was more manly than that of anyone, flatscan or mutant, in the entire joint, he scanned the drinkers. Seeing the usual mishmash of rednecks, psychotic bikers with dubious tattoos (invariably 'I luv mom'), varying lengths of ratty beard and mullets and zit-cheeked kids with faked ID's, he gave his customary challenging glare. This was the precursor to a) Sullen looks directed into drinks. b) A bar brawl. Or c) Every gorgeous woman in the place (and some not so gorgeous) falling over themselves to get his attention. Normally, it was all three in alphabetical order.
Exactly on cue, the biggest, meanest biker with grammatically incorrect tattoos garlanding his forearms, rose from his barstool. Grinning, Wolverine rubbed his muttonchop beard and cracked his knuckles with a sound like airgun pellets striking a beer can. The biker was head and shoulders taller, and a few stone heavier, and if he was exceptionally lucky, would only end up hospitalised for a few weeks. Lumbering over, beer gut protruding from beneath his 'Hawkwind' T-shirt, the biker opened his mouth just as Wolverine's fist clenched.
"Excuse me," he said politely. "But I just luuuuurrvve your hair! You must tell me the name of your stylist – those points! That dramatic, feral, yet endearing look!"
Hands clasped, the biker continued to gush, somehow managing to mince in road-worn motorcycle boots. Wolverine's anticipatory grin sagged and disappeared. Something approaching worry tinging his expression as three of the biker's friends joined in the twittering about feather-cutting, styling products and the likelihood of a natural parting, he pulled out a card and handed it over.
"Ring up an' ask fer Scott," he confided, sneaking a glance to see if anyone was looking. "He runs a health and beauty course at Xavier's."
"Oooh!" the biker trilled, snatching the card like it was a Fabergé egg. Cocking his head, he glanced at the mutant's hair with a quizzical expression. "Do you condition?"
"You noticed?" Logan preened, then his mouth snapped shut and he scowled. Big, bad Wolverine did not exchange styling tips. Ever. "Beat it, bub, before I shish-kebab yer!"
Nodding sympathetically, the biker giggled and pressed a stubby finger to his lips in an exaggerated shushing sign. His nails were beautifully manicured and buffed, despite the engine oil caught under them.
"Oh! Okay, I geddit!" he mock-whispered, then cleared his throat and said loudly. "I'll let it slide this time, dude." He lowered his tone to a menacing rumble. "But next time, we'll sort this out the old fashioned way."
Honour satisfied, image protected, Wolverine gave an obligatory growl, stalked manfully away and plopped down onto a stool at the end of the bar.
"I'll have a-" he began, then blinked as a frosty bottle of Canadian Gold beer appeared at his elbow, closely followed by a brimming whisky shooter. "I was gonna say a gin 'n' tonic, but what the hell."
Chugging down his beer, wiping off the foam moustache, he glanced up as a tall, impressively-buxom brunette in gold-tooled brown leather strode past. There seemed to be a lot of oddly-dressed people in the bar. She had a serviceable looking sword strapped to her back and an animatedly chattering blonde sidekick. He watched the short fringed leather skirt slapping against her sleek, muscular thighs and his lips pursed for a wolf-whistle.
"I wouldn't if I were you, love," a female voice with an English accent warned.
Distracted, Wolverine blew out a sound suspiciously like a fart instead of a whistle. His opportunity missed, the blue-eyed brunette with the sword elbowed her way into the ladies room, sidekick in tow.
"An' just why not, darlin'?" he growled.
"'Cos Xena gets upset and cuts off the blood supply to your brain. She has many skills," the same voice continued helpfully.
Turning, intending to let rip with his patented repertoire of fearsome scowls, bowel-rumbling growls and general animalistic-but-sexy-as-hell grunts, he paused and blinked.
"Hey, don't I know yer?" he asked, peering at the tall young woman behind the bar. "Yer seem kinda familiar."
She rolled her eyes disdainfully and tucked a lock of her curly dark hair behind her ear. A diamond winked brightly at her left nostril as she wrinkled her nose.
"That's original," she said scornfully, pouring herself a vodka and coke. "And just who do I remind you of, pray tell?"
Wolverine thought hard for a moment. His role did not generally require him to do any deep thinking. A few snarls, some parading about without his shirt and popping his claws seemed to suffice often as not.
"Hels!" he exclaimed. "Yer look…" He paused again and frowned. "In fact, yer look spookily like Hels – a bit, um, less, yer've got a few more… Yer like a non-superpowered version," he concluded triumphantly, then winced as he realised that was one of the things that fell under the 'Not Supposed To Tell' category.
"That's right," the English girl said, not at all put out. "I'm not quite so pretty, intelligent, slim or superpowered. In fact, I've no super powers at all, to speak of. Except one."
Logan looked at her, suddenly suspicious. She grinned back at him and added a little more vodka to her drink, looking him up and down like he was an action figure complete with dinky little accessories. Dressed entirely in black, with ludicrously large New Rock boots, she reminded him of nothing so much as an escapee from a downmarket, university student version of 'The Matrix'.
"An' what's that?" he asked, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.
"She's The Author," a familiar voice said behind him, accompanied by a burst of ominous music not dissimilar to the 'Twilight Zone' theme.
Catching Helena Draven's scent, Wolverine turned and regarded her with puzzlement and slowly rising unease. Just where the music had come from, he did not dare speculate. Raven slung herself onto the barstool next to him and hooked the toe of her boot under the rung. Nodding a greeting to her almost-doppelganger, she accepted the whisky shooter slid into her hand.
"The Author?" Logan repeated, not missing the foreboding capitalisation.
"Yep," both women said in unison, sporting matching, slightly crooked grins.
He looked from one face to the other and scowled. They both rolled their eyes and looked slightly bored, showing sudden interest as a large, goatee-bearded man in a black leather jerkin strode past. Like the brunette with the irritating blonde sidekick, he also carried a large sword, though his had considerably more jewels encrusting the hilt. Realising he was the object of intense scrutiny, he turned and flashed a dangerous half-smile that screamed 'bad boy who needs tying down and spanking'.
"Will you look at that bum," Raven sighed, gaze roaming somewhat lasciviously upwards.
"Mmmhhmm," the Author agreed, a slight glaze to her grey green eyes. "Ares is a regular. Give him enough Ambrosia and he'll do the Full Monty."
"No shit!" Raven exclaimed, sitting bolt upright. "I'll have to remember that."
"Aha!" Logan yelled suddenly, causing both women to narrow their eyes and tut. "You're the bitch who's been causing all this shit to go down, making things inexplicably alter, plucking contradictory, utterly unfeasible plot devices from nowhere!" He stopped and realised he had used big words such as 'contradictory', then added another 'aha!' for effect.
Suddenly finding his claws itching from the inside, a sure sign that life-threatening peril was to follow, he realised he was being glared at. Looking to Helena for backup, he found she was stirring her drink with her index finger, a smug smile on her lips.
"You silly bugger," she said pleasantly. "She's so gonna lamp you if you don't buck up your ideas."
"Lamp?" he repeated faintly, wondering what electrical devices had to do with anything.
"Yeah," she nodded. "Lamp, spark, do over, beat up – get with the Liverpool slang, mate. She's the Duchess Of The Dark and I'm her author avatar. Hence the uncanny resemblance."
Wolverine gulped down the remainder of his beer and started on his whisky, realising he would probably need several more before the night was out.
"That's right," the Duchess beamed, pouring her avatar another drink. "She gets to do all the stuff I can't or won't, due to real-world physical, moral and financial constraints."
Feeling slightly sick at the prospect of two smart-mouthed Scousers, Wolverine stared at his glass mournfully until the Duchess took pity and refilled it.
"Ah," he said knowingly. "So Hels is a Mary Sue."
"No!" both women said sharply in stereo.
"A Mary Sue is beautiful and nauseatingly perfect in every way," Raven said sternly.
"And she's not," the Duchess finished. "She drinks too much, swears too much and has an unfortunate habit of saying exactly what she thinks at precisely the wrong time." She paused and grimaced. "A bit like me, actually."
Silence reigned as the two women sipped at their drinks. The Duchess scowled at a customer who dared approach and ask for a drink, jerking her chin in the general direction of the other bar staff. Disgruntled, the customer, a balding middle-aged man in a sharp suit with an FBI name tag reading 'Skinner, Walter', sloped off. Lazily, she returned her full attention to Wolverine, who gulped some more whisky. Fixed by two sets of knowing female eyes, he began to feel distinctly uncomfortable, not unlike a Logan-shaped bug stuck to a cork board by a well-placed pin. Glancing down to make sure his fly was zipped, he shifted uneasily on his bar stool, wondering why the undivided attention of two women was making his hackles rise.
"What?!" he burst out at length, unable to endure the unblinking attention.
"Nothing," Raven smirked.
"What she says," the Duchess nodded, smirking even more.
Growling, Logan popped one set of claws and loomed threateningly over the bar with a squeak of his battered leather jacket. The Duchess shrank back, kohl-lined eyes saucer-wide, then seemed to remember something important. She lifted her hand, pointed her index finger, and zapped him. A gut-wrenching, teeth-loosening plasma jolt streaking through his body, Wolverine collapsed onto his stool with a pained grunt.
"What the hell was that?" he demanded, yelping as he received a static shock from his own claws.
"I told you so," Raven snickered. "She's The Author. She can do that, and worse!"
"Shaddap!" he snarled.
Raven regarded him for a moment, then telekinetically sealed his lips, grinning as he did an Oscar-worthy impression of Kenny minus the skanky orange anorak. With adamantium claws.
"Thanks, you saved me the bother," the Duchess said, realising that the zap had melted her nail varnish. "Damn! I only did that this morning."
Glancing at Wolverine, who had turned an unfetching shade of aubergine with rage, she chuckled. He gesticulated furiously, the muscles in his jaw jumping with effort.
"Muvva fumpin hitch!"
"Oh, give it a rest," she sighed. "I've been quite nice to you, considering. I mean, I could've got you and Rogue together."
The colour drained from Logan's features until he was ashen. Straining to speak, he glared at the Duchess, then at Raven, who looked vaguely disgusted.
"Seez unnerage, ha ki! Her sun kina hervert?! Hi don sea ver fat vay."
"She's underage, a kid," Raven translated obligingly. "You some kinda pervert? I don't see her that way."
"I know, it was just an example," the Duchess mollified. "Like, I could've got you and Cyclops together."
Helena's nose wrinkled and she made a gagging sound, holding out her glass for a refill.
"To quote that Jubilee kid; ewwwwww. He is so not my type. I like my men to be a tad unpredictable, a little wild, a burning hunka-" She broke off and blushed, realising Wolverine was listening to her very closely, a small, feral smile on his lips. "In your dreams, pal!"
"Maybe if he takes his shirt off," the Duchess suggested hopefully, with a leer. "It seems to have the desired effect on every red-blooded female in the movie or comic-verse."
Both movieverse characters looked at her, obviously puzzled. Belatedly remembering his mouth was sealed as he lifted his glass, Wolverine glared at Raven until she broke her telekinetic hold.
"Comic-verse?" she queried with a small frown.
The Duchess waved a hand dismissively, twining a chestnut curl around her index finger as she stepped back to allow a barman to retrieve a crate of Bud from by her feet.
"Doesn't matter," she revealed. "I'll return you both to my P.A.T at last orders, you won't remember a thing. Come to think of it, where're you at?"
"I was havin' a cage fight up in Calgary," Wolverine growled. "Just been ta that Alkali Lake dump after all the shit went down with Magneto."
"I'm teaching at Xavier's," Raven clarified. "Um, what's a P.A.T?"
"Personal Author Timeline," the Duchess explained, then cackled and rubbed her hands together in a distinctly Machiavellian fashion. "Wait till you see what I've got planned!"
"I don't think we're gonna like this," Logan rumbled unhappily.
"Oh, you're gonna love it!" the Duchess giggled, clapping her hands. "Well, mostly…" She trailed off and thought for a bit, then brightened. "There's some really nasty bits, but you both get laid!"
Wolverine and Raven grinned broadly, pleased at the prospect. The Duchess beamed like everyone's favourite beatific great aunt, the overhead light reflecting from her chunky silver bracelets. In tandem, their grins faded and they slowly looked at each other with dawning realisation.
"Oh, no," Helena began, looking worried. "You can't be serious. He's a slut for Chrissake! It moves, he screws it. And he snores! I should know, I spent a year slumming about Canada in the back of his trailer."
"Save it for the sequels!" the Duchess hissed. "No spoilers!"
Visibly deflated, the two clawed mutants stared into their drinks. Watching her plaything and her avatar, the Duchess hid a smile, feeling the intoxication of Absolute Power. Smothering an urge to make Wolverine do the Conga in the altogether, she spotted two newcomers and beckoned them over, pouring two mugs of Corellian Ale. Serene in sweeping robes of roughly-woven sandy brown material, they eased their way through the throngs and sat down. They positively oozed strength, nobility and calm. Eyeing them suspiciously, Logan caught the gaze of the older man, who had long silver brown hair, a neatly-trimmed beard and piercing blue eyes.
"This homo superior is remarkably aggressive," he murmured to his companion, a clean-shaven younger man with a short, bristling haircut and trailing braid.
"Yer wanna see just how aggressive, bub?" Wolverine demanded, deciding he really did not like the other man's air of tranquil power. Or his ageing rocker haircut.
"Sit down!" the Duchess hissed, spearing him with a venomous glare. "This macho shit may be superficially attractive, but it's starting to piss me right off!"
Wolverine hurriedly sat down and seriously considered changing his name to Fluffy-Wuffy Care Bear. Inclining her head respectfully, the Englishwoman slid the mugs of ale across the polished bar top into waiting hands.
"Apologies, Master," she said. "Logan tends to get a little…"
"Irritating," Raven supplied helpfully, unobtrusively moving her stool a little closer to the Jedi. "I'm Helena, and you are…?"
"Obi-Wan Kenobi," the younger man offered with an endearing, dimple-cheeked smile. He knew his place in the Grand Order of things. He was the young, fanciable one with a big lightsabre. His Master just doddered about looking wise and trying not to let his Irish accent slip through.
"Yeah, yeah," she said, flicking him a desultory glance.
Obi-Wan glared at Wolverine, who was silently cracking up behind Helena's back. Wiping away tears of mirth, Logan gave the young Padawan the middle finger. Kenobi merely looked mildly puzzled. That particular offensive hand gesture was not familiar to him. Farting Hutts and old Jedi Masters who in his opinion should have given up chasing girls were offensive. A middle digit on a humanoid hand was not.
"I'm Qui-Gon Jinn," the Jedi Master purred, fully aware that he was wise and sexy. He also knew how to use his lightsabre better than his apprentice. Size matters not. "Obi-Wan is my apprentice, my Padawan."
"Paddle-wan?" Raven asked, an eyebrow quirking.
"Don't start," Obi-Wan grumbled, looking sulky. He perked up when the Duchess patted his hand consolingly and pushed over a little container of salted peanuts.
"So you're a…" she paused and looked to The Author for information. A silent exchange flitted between the two women. "A Jedi Master… and just what exactly, are you Masterful at?"
Obi-Wan, Logan and the Duchess all groaned soundlessly. The Duchess's head hit the bar top with a dull thud that was repeated at regular intervals.
"Uh, darlin', yer gonna hurt yerself," Logan ventured after a minute or so of watching the red mark on her forehead increase.
"S'alright," she said brightly between thuds. "It's nice when I stop."
Glancing over, the Canadian mutant discovered Raven was playing with the Jedi Master's hair. That did not please him. What pleased him less was the large hand resting on her knee. Somehow, her outfit had magically transformed from baggy black cyber combats and a Bauhaus baby T-shirt to slinky leather pants and a matching halter-neck corset. A low, menacing growl grew in his chest, gradually rising into his throat. Obi-Wan was morosely eating salted peanuts, his lower lip stuck out petulantly.
"Hey!" an irate female voice snapped. It took Wolverine several seconds to realise it was not directed at him.
"My, that's a big lightsabre," Raven cooed, oblivious. "Huh? Ack!!"
"No cross fanfic fornication!" the Duchess growled, tugging on the glowing crimson lasso of Author Energy around her avatar's throat. "It only results in Abominations That Must Be Destroyed."
Satisfied she had communicated her message, she gave a grand flourish and the lasso disappeared. Obi-Wan sniggered in a most un-Jedi like manner, causing his Master to cuff him around the head. Preparing for an extended gloat, Logan was about to do likewise when he caught Helena's skull-popping glare. Deciding he would rather not spend the rest of the night with every orifice telekinetically sealed, he tipped his glass to the Duchess for a refill. Mouth scrunched in a pout, Helena slithered off her stool and stalked away towards the ladies room, snarling at a lost Powerpuff Girl who strayed into her path. The Powerpuff Girl whimpered, unused to anyone immune to her innate sickening cuteness, and scurried away like a skinned Chihuahua.
"You're underage!" the Duchess called after her. "Get your arse outta here!"
Signalling to the doorman, a huge, blond-maned mutant wearing wolf furs and a brown leather duster coat, she indicated the miscreant. Flexing his black claws, he lumbered over, picked up the Powerpuff Girl by the seat of her pants and briskly tossed her out of the nearest window. A faint, gradually dying scream echoed through the night, uncannily similar to that of someone falling from a great height.
"Hey! Isn't that--?" Logan cried, his claws popping.
"Yeah, Sabretooth moonlights as a bouncer," the Duchess said unconcernedly. "The Brotherhood doesn't pay as well as it used to… It's alright, Victor… No – think about the mess, sweetie. It'd have to come out of your wages."
Scowling thunderously, Victor Creed showed his sharp ivory fangs and slunk away, muttering darkly under his breath.
"Logan. Sit."
Logan spluttered protestingly. The Duchess glared, an impressive corona of Author Energy glowing around her index finger. Logan sat. He sheathed his claws, then popped them one by one, shooting murderous glances in Creed's direction. Victor, meanwhile, had spotted a catfight between Xena and a screeching blonde woman with a maniacal glint in her eyes. The blonde was an unnerving collection of psychotic ticks and twitch-nosed malice; a Barbie doll with homicidal tendencies and a sword. Cracking his knuckles, wondering if he could cop a feel without anyone noticing, Sabretooth barrelled over to break it up.
"You're pouting, Qui," the Duchess sighed reprovingly, her tone markedly less formal than before. "You know the rules. Besides which, I think you'd find Helena likes to use her claws for more than slicing 'n' dicing baddies."
"Jedi Masters do not pout," Qui-Gon returned gravely. Silence for several beats, then; "Um… claws?"
Never one to miss an opportunity to intimidate, Wolverine grinned and leaned across. His right fist came up. Snikt!
"Like these, bub," he crowed. "An' they're just as sharp as they look."
Obi-Wan blanched a little and shot his Master a glance, suddenly quite glad he had been passed over in favour of the older Jedi. Master Jinn regarded the adamantium talons, unruffled, a thoughtful expression on his bearded face.
"I'm sure we could come to some mutually satisfactory arrangement," he murmured serenely, stroking the hilt of his lightsabre.
"Master!" Obi-Wan exclaimed, features pinched with shock as he caught a clear impression of the older man's thoughts.
The Duchess sniggered and slapped Qui-Gon's hand in mock-reprove, a faint blush colouring her pale cheeks as he favoured her with a small, enigmatic smile. Realising he looked remarkably stupid waving his claws about when nobody was taking a blind bit of notice, Logan sheathed them and sat down.
Returning from the ladies room, Helena Draven found her path blocked by a short, snaggle-toothed alien with wraparound ears. She glanced down at the grey-nailed hand that had materialised at her hip, her umbrage second only to her astonishment at the gaudy design of his brocade jacket. An accident in a paint factory would have been more appealing.
"Haven't seen you here before," he observed lecherously, eyes shifty and overly bright. "My place is much better – it's on a little space station near the only stable wormhole in the quadrant. Once you've been to Quark's, you'll never go anywhere else."
Snikt! Quark gulped, suddenly finding the razor points of three metal claws pricking his jugular. Eyes bulging, he risked a glance down and saw they were protruding from between the knuckles of the young human woman's hand.
"On second thoughts, you look just fine where you are," he tittered nervously, removing his hand.
Sidling away, a large snail juice (with extra shells) clutched in his non-groping hand, he breathed a sigh of relief.
"Females," he grumbled, watching her stomp away. "No sense of humour…. is that a corset?"
"Try it and you'll lose an arm, you short-arse troll!" Raven tossed over her shoulder, hearing him sneaking up behind her.
Quark grinned and took another step forward, only to have a huge, black-clawed hand drop heavily onto his shoulder. He swallowed, looked up to see the doorman looming over him like an impending eight car pile-up and cringed.
"No botherin' the ladies, runt," he growled, voice like a panther caught in an oil drum. A smile that contained far too many teeth appeared on Victor's yellow-whiskered face and he picked a strand of blonde hair from between his pointed canines. "That's my job."
The Ferrengi barkeeper scuttled away without further ado, shooting nervous glances back to make sure Sabretooth was not following. Unaware of the minor episode of intimidation, Raven returned to her barstool and slung herself onto it moodily. The Duchess was nowhere to be seen. She lifted an eyebrow enquiring in Logan's direction.
"Cellar," he grunted tersely. "Ran outta vodka or somethin'… d'yer think anyone'd notice if I skewer that Jedi kid an' his goddamn 'mostah'?"
"I'd notice," Raven glared. "Don't you dare touch Qui."
"What, cos yer haven't gotten under his robes yet?" Logan sneered, adopting a falsetto and a poor imitation of a Liverpudlian accent. "My, what a big lightsabre you have!"
"To use your favourite insult – you're a dick," she retorted calmly, ignoring his indignant scowl. "It must burn you up, a girl like me travelling around with you all that time and not succumbing to your dubious charms. Gotta be careful. Might not be there next time… Oh, and Logan – stay away from my Jedi."
Wolverine rumbled discontentedly deep in his chest, casually leaning forward a few inches to see if he could get a good look down her corset-hoicked cleavage. To his dismay, she folded her arms and leaned back, gazing around the bar before turning back to him. Somewhere, in a corner booth, there was a resounding clunk of a wooden staff on thick skull as Victor Creed made a lewd suggestion to a Xena-less sidekick.
"Y'know, there's an awful lotta odd people and… and… things in here," Raven observed. "What made you invite me all the way out to Canada in the first place? I did have some papers to grade."
"Papers!" Logan snorted derisively. "Yer gonna be wearin' tweed an' callin yerself 'Miss' next." He stopped and scratched his head, bewildered. "Uh, I didn't invite yer ta Canada, darlin', yer invited me ta New York."
Qui-Gon looked up from the dregs of his second Corellian Ale. He had been offered something called a Pangalactic Gargle Blaster by a strange two-headed barman calling himself Zaphod, but had decided anything that colour was definitely not safe to consume.
"Canada?" he asked, brow crinkled with slight bemusement. "I beg to differ; this is Coruscant."
"We're not on Coruscant?" Obi-Wan piped up, looking hopeful.
"We're not in New York?" Helena frowned.
"I thought this was Risa," a wheedling voice muttered across the room.
"This isn't the Olympus Tavern?"
"I told you he wasn't from Gaul, Xena!"
"I knew Ten Forward hadn't been redecorated!"
"The Bronze wouldn't let in these jerks!"
On cue, the Duchess appeared in a 'bamf' of purple Author Energy, clutching two bottles of Smirnoff. Setting them down on the bar top, she looked around and saw a spontaneous outbreak of heated arguing, gesticulating and general differences of opinion. Cupping her hands to her mouth, nail varnish miraculously restored from its earlier state of meltedness, she took a deep breath.
"LAST ORDERS!!"
There was a mad stampede towards the bar, the debate over the exact universe, planet, country and dimension forgotten. A bleach-blonde, swaggering young Englishman in black leathers elbowed his way to the front and asked for a pint of type O negative, smiling toothily at the barmaid. Ares appeared in a column of red lightning, knocking out a jabbering Ferrengi waiter with the pommel of his sword. Slamming down his empty tankard, he demanded an Ambrosia. Gingerly fingering his black eye, Sabretooth stepped back to allow the staff-wielding blonde sidekick past. She grinned smugly and sidled up to Ares, pinching his leather-clad buttock while his attention was diverted. The God of War yelped and looked around, startled. Gabrielle whistled innocently and winked naughtily at Wolverine, who felt a sudden need to blush.
Allowing the other bar staff to serve the assembled hordes, the Duchess felt the combined displeasure of two Jedi and a pair of clawed mutants.
"What?" she protested, spreading her hands.
"I believe we were brought here under false pretences," Master Jinn announced, radiating benevolent reproach.
"No shit, oh Masterful One," Logan drawled sarcastically. "Yer Paddle-Wan work that out?"
"I've had enough of him," Obi-Wan seethed, hand jumping to his 'sabre hilt. "Master, just let me beat the crap out of him, pleeeeeaaaaase?"
"Mostah, Mostah!"
Raven and the Duchess rolled their eyes in unison at the whooshing hum of an igniting lightsabre and the distinctive snapping click of adamantium breaking skin. The Duchess carefully poured a drink for her avatar.
"Do you want to, or shall I?" she asked, leaning on her elbows.
"Go ahead," Helena shrugged. "Just send me a willing Qui-Gon for a few hours when you zap us all back to our respective P.A.T's."
"Fair enough, love," the Duchess agreed. Chuckling, she raised her voice. "Victor! Turf out Wolverine – he's getting on my nerves! Qui, Obi! There's Darth Maul!! Xena – there's Callisto! Buffy!! I can see Faith over there! Jean-Luc, is that the Borg Queen?!"
The bar erupted into absolute chaos as various superheroes and villains began to brawl, the air shrieking with phaser fire, clashing blades and smashing fists. Amidst the furore, the Duchess beamed and clapped her hands. With a sound uncannily similar to a popping balloon, everybody and everything disappeared, folding in on itself until all that remained was a sparkling black dot.
"Remember! Send Qui…." a voice echoed faintly in the void.
Laughing to herself, the Duchess Of The Dark floated in the humming blackness, twitched her nose and vanished.
*
* grins wickedly Like it???!!