The script writer was bored. The movie he'd been working on wasn't going how he'd wanted it too He'd re-written the scene so many times he felt like a stuck tape. That was not a good fealing.
Well, if the scene wasn't going to work, then TO HELL with it! He was going to have himself a bit of fun.
The script writer pulled a fresh leaf of paper and started in on writing gibberish.
bloody hell! Spike thought, looking about himself in evident bewilderment. What was going on NOW?
The ground lurched beneeth his feat. Spike struggled to steady himself. Something was wrong. More deaply wrong then the evident earthquake. Spike blinked, and realized he was on a ship. Great white linen masts spread above him, billowing in a feirce gale. Water rocked the boat, sending a foam of sea spray onto the deck with each wave. Not an earthquake then, just the wake of a storm. Or was the storm about to break?
Spike squinted against the glare of the sun off the water, trying to see if the storm frount was moving towards are away from the ship. wait! That was it!
He was out in broad daylight. Spike jumped like a startled cat, vigarously checking himself over. No smoke crept from his ears,none rushed from beneath his jeans. He wasn't catching on fire! He'd relaxed too soon. Something WAS spoking. A thin whisp of steam was beginning to trickle from his pockete. Panicked, spike delved into the pockete, then screached.
His hand emmerged holding the hot end of a cigar.
Now that was downright odd.
Spike would never leave a cigar in his pockete.
The scriptwriter smirked. Cross overs had less value than bad paradys, but no one had to see this. He must have been tired, for he was getting a little sloppy. Forgetting that Spike,being a vampire, could not go out during the day. Most likely, he would find the error later, chide himself for his carelessness, but never remember to fix it.
It was only a crossover. Something light and fluff to clear his head. Something with no consiquence to anyone.
Real, OR fictiscous.
or so he thought.
Something moved in Spike's peripheral vision. Suddenly, he found himself looking down the glareing silver blade of a curved sword at a pretty young women. She had a mocha complexion and almound shaped eyes like amber. Her ebony hair was swept up into a tight bun and mostly hidden by a red and white bandanna. When she spoke, her lilting accent stuck out strongely.
"What buissness have ye with the black pearl?"she inquired, jabbing the blade forward.
Spike took a step back, cunfused. He couldn't think of anything to say.
Then,suddenly, the words just came to him. They spilled out his mouth without him evan meaning to say them, as though he were a T.V's speakers, and the words not his own. The sensation was not unfamilar to Spike. Aside from being a blonde brittish vampire, he was also part of the cast of Buffy the Vampire slayer. Which meant that, at regular intervals, people from a world he'd never entered used him like a puppete to act out rediculace incedents for the enjoyment of others in their world. Still, it never failed to unnerve Spike when it happened. There was never any forewarning, and always it was acompinied by a queasy fealing in the pit of his stomach. He winced as he said:"I'm only just passing through. And i'll be on my way now if it's all the same to--" "you've a sharp accent."The women said, her voice itself still sounding strange.
"Yes, well..."Spike said, becoming acustomed to the neasea and reluctantly surrendering to saying what he was "told" to. "Brittish." The women nodded."Only just passing through?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. A sudden suspision grasped spike. He looked down. A pile of smouldered, smoking cigerettes lay at his feat on a bed of ashes. He growled in frustration, disobeying whoever was using him NOW. The seering headache this induced was worse then one he got if he tried to attack a human. But he didn't care. This was too much to bare. It was like being stuck in a spliced re-run. This had already happened. In frount of Buffy's house. When he'd been...ennamered....with the slayer. He'd left and she'd noticed the ashes, thus snatching away any credence his flimsy excuse had bought him.
"WELL?"The women asked.
Something in her eyes lightened. The nasea left.
The script writer felt he needed a break. He lay down his pencil and went to fetch a glass of water.
The women dropped her sword. "Dammit, dammit, dammit!" she muttered. "I HATE being a Ôcharactor'. It's awful,being a puppete."Turning to spike, she lets out a sigh of resignation. "Sorry." she says. "That wasn't me--i, i mean..it was...but..."she looked at him helplessly.
"It's O.K."Spike said. "I know. I'm Spike."He exteneded a sturdy hand.
"Spike?"the women asked in confusion, looking unsure."I...I don't think I've heard of a spike..." "You probably haven't. I don't think I'm from your world.
A/N:so...that's chapter one, I guess. Sorry it was so short and confusing. It's one of those things that makes more sense as it goes along. Also, none of the pirates of the carribean cast or spike belong to me. oviously. but any charactors I invent do, although I won't use them any where else. Probably. R&R and tell me what you think!
Well, if the scene wasn't going to work, then TO HELL with it! He was going to have himself a bit of fun.
The script writer pulled a fresh leaf of paper and started in on writing gibberish.
bloody hell! Spike thought, looking about himself in evident bewilderment. What was going on NOW?
The ground lurched beneeth his feat. Spike struggled to steady himself. Something was wrong. More deaply wrong then the evident earthquake. Spike blinked, and realized he was on a ship. Great white linen masts spread above him, billowing in a feirce gale. Water rocked the boat, sending a foam of sea spray onto the deck with each wave. Not an earthquake then, just the wake of a storm. Or was the storm about to break?
Spike squinted against the glare of the sun off the water, trying to see if the storm frount was moving towards are away from the ship. wait! That was it!
He was out in broad daylight. Spike jumped like a startled cat, vigarously checking himself over. No smoke crept from his ears,none rushed from beneath his jeans. He wasn't catching on fire! He'd relaxed too soon. Something WAS spoking. A thin whisp of steam was beginning to trickle from his pockete. Panicked, spike delved into the pockete, then screached.
His hand emmerged holding the hot end of a cigar.
Now that was downright odd.
Spike would never leave a cigar in his pockete.
The scriptwriter smirked. Cross overs had less value than bad paradys, but no one had to see this. He must have been tired, for he was getting a little sloppy. Forgetting that Spike,being a vampire, could not go out during the day. Most likely, he would find the error later, chide himself for his carelessness, but never remember to fix it.
It was only a crossover. Something light and fluff to clear his head. Something with no consiquence to anyone.
Real, OR fictiscous.
or so he thought.
Something moved in Spike's peripheral vision. Suddenly, he found himself looking down the glareing silver blade of a curved sword at a pretty young women. She had a mocha complexion and almound shaped eyes like amber. Her ebony hair was swept up into a tight bun and mostly hidden by a red and white bandanna. When she spoke, her lilting accent stuck out strongely.
"What buissness have ye with the black pearl?"she inquired, jabbing the blade forward.
Spike took a step back, cunfused. He couldn't think of anything to say.
Then,suddenly, the words just came to him. They spilled out his mouth without him evan meaning to say them, as though he were a T.V's speakers, and the words not his own. The sensation was not unfamilar to Spike. Aside from being a blonde brittish vampire, he was also part of the cast of Buffy the Vampire slayer. Which meant that, at regular intervals, people from a world he'd never entered used him like a puppete to act out rediculace incedents for the enjoyment of others in their world. Still, it never failed to unnerve Spike when it happened. There was never any forewarning, and always it was acompinied by a queasy fealing in the pit of his stomach. He winced as he said:"I'm only just passing through. And i'll be on my way now if it's all the same to--" "you've a sharp accent."The women said, her voice itself still sounding strange.
"Yes, well..."Spike said, becoming acustomed to the neasea and reluctantly surrendering to saying what he was "told" to. "Brittish." The women nodded."Only just passing through?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. A sudden suspision grasped spike. He looked down. A pile of smouldered, smoking cigerettes lay at his feat on a bed of ashes. He growled in frustration, disobeying whoever was using him NOW. The seering headache this induced was worse then one he got if he tried to attack a human. But he didn't care. This was too much to bare. It was like being stuck in a spliced re-run. This had already happened. In frount of Buffy's house. When he'd been...ennamered....with the slayer. He'd left and she'd noticed the ashes, thus snatching away any credence his flimsy excuse had bought him.
"WELL?"The women asked.
Something in her eyes lightened. The nasea left.
The script writer felt he needed a break. He lay down his pencil and went to fetch a glass of water.
The women dropped her sword. "Dammit, dammit, dammit!" she muttered. "I HATE being a Ôcharactor'. It's awful,being a puppete."Turning to spike, she lets out a sigh of resignation. "Sorry." she says. "That wasn't me--i, i mean..it was...but..."she looked at him helplessly.
"It's O.K."Spike said. "I know. I'm Spike."He exteneded a sturdy hand.
"Spike?"the women asked in confusion, looking unsure."I...I don't think I've heard of a spike..." "You probably haven't. I don't think I'm from your world.
A/N:so...that's chapter one, I guess. Sorry it was so short and confusing. It's one of those things that makes more sense as it goes along. Also, none of the pirates of the carribean cast or spike belong to me. oviously. but any charactors I invent do, although I won't use them any where else. Probably. R&R and tell me what you think!