Been a while, has it? Thanks for being so patient (by "patient" I of course mean "not sending me threatening letters" which I didn't really expect anyone to do, but regardless its nice that I didn't find any waiting for me when I checked my e-mail) I'm back in this one... a bit, anyway.... I hesitate to describe myself for fear of being accused of Mary-Sue-ing myself, but the honest-to-God truth is I am four foot eight, a hundred pounds, have blond-streaked brown hair to my knees, dark hazel eyes, and am commonly described as "cute." (also left-handed, what I deem my most important characteristic) Go figure. Carl and me, we fit. We're both short and marginally blond. Go now and weep. No, seriously.... :) I kind of wish I was normal height but I know its not that big a deal.
Chapter Twelve: Transcending Reality
The Writer scuttled along a back street in London, trying not to trip over unfamiliar cobblestones. She was supremely unsure about putting herself in a fic again, though nobody had complained about her presence in the first one— she wasn't entirely sure on the Mary-Sue issue, but didn't think that her physical appearance, name, abilities, habits, or intelligence would push the limits too much.
Besides which, she needed a vacation.
Still—
She looked up and saw her readers staring back at her. She gave them a desultory wave.
Now, if she'd timed everything correctly, Carl should be just around the next corner—
A collision occurred.
"Perfect!" said the Writer from where she'd sprawled on the ground.
"What?" asked Carl, looking down at her. She scrambled to her feet.
"I timed it just right," she explained. "The whole thing was done for comic effect, and for once I did it right! Although—" she frowned. "I don't hear anyone laughing.
Carl stared at her in much the same way he'd stare at a crazy woman. "Have a nice day," he said, and hurried off.
"Wait!" said the Writer, hobbling after him. "Don't you know who I am?"
"No," said Carl, in a tone that indicated that he didn't wish to, either.
"I'm the Writer! Or the Writer's Avatar, anyway. I'm writing this fic."
Carl stopped and stared at her again. "You are?"
"Yeah."
"Then why," he demanded irately, " are you referring to yourself in third person?"
"Novel for script," she said. "Usually I use script fic— this time I'm making it hard on myself."
"Isn't that terribly egotistical of you?"
"Well, it is rather. I had thought of calling this chapter ME!" She watched him. "Look, if you don't want my help, I can just leave—"
"Wait!" said the Carl as the Writer turned to go. "Can you help me find Van Helsing? He's wandered off—"
"Ah, yes," said the Writer without hesitation. "He's located Kate Beckinsale."
"Who?"
"The actress who played Anna."
"What?"
"In the movie."
"What?"
"Look, Carl, if I try to explain any further you'll wind up convinced that you don't actually exist. If you really must know, read 'Portal Trip: Diary of Carl' on the fanfiction website. But lets just skip all that and try to stop Van Helsing from stalking Kate Beckinsale before he makes a nuisance of himself and gets arrested."
"Alright," said Carl.
The Writer smiled at him and patted his shoulder. "Good man."
They began to trudge through the streets, the Writer admiring everything as she'd never been to England, and Carl admiring everything as he'd never been to the year 2005.
"So what major differences are there between what you see now and what you see in— whatever year you're from?"
"Well," began Carl, "to start with, the buildings are taller, the people are uglier— "
"Uglier?"
"Yes. Though their teeth appear to be much better kept, and the general smell of things is much improved."
"Ah," said the Writer. "I'll just let you talk and I won't ask any more questions okay?"
"Alright," said Carl agreeably. "The fashions differ widely— I don't believe I've seen a single corset yet—"
"How would you know?"
"Trust me," said Carl fervently. "I would know."
:"Oh, right, I was forgetting the London assignment. Carry on."
"And there sem to be large metal boxes whizzing around and running over people."
"Cars, Carl. Everything'll be alright as long as you don't assume they'll stop for you."
"Right. But the biggest difference appears to be that there's a sign that says 'Starbucks' on every corner. Why is that? Is it some new kind of government?"
The Writer stopped walking and an evil smile crossed her face. "More like a slave operation— I'll have to take you in there— but no, lets find Van Helsing first. I'm getting a little worried, he should be around here someplace—"
Behind them came the scream of rakes and screech of tires.
"Oh no," said the Writer, very quietly.
"What is it?"
"Turn around. Do it slowly, slowly, Carl."
"Why?" the friar hissed, now seriously worried.
"Because its funnier that way. Come on, work with me here!"
They turned very, very slowly.
As she feared, Gabriel Van Helsing was threatening a taxi with his crossbow. He'd thus far caused a six-car pileup and it looked like he was going for the record.
"You are servants of evil!" he shouted to the street in general. "I will destroy you!"
"Fantastic," said the Writer. "Go get him, Carl."
"What? Why me?"
"Because he knows you! What's he going to think if a nineteen-year-old girl suddenly tackles him around the waist?"
"Well," said Carl after some reflection, "it might divert his attention from Anna."
"It wasn't Anna and go get him!"
"Really I wouldn't worry about it, it happens all the time."
"Preferably before he gets arrested! Now, Carl!"
Carl swore under his breath and, because Van Helsing was currently focused on giving a Honda his one-eyebrow-raised look, had to berate himself, "Carl, you're a monk, you're not supposed to swear!" and then say, "I'm not a monk, I'm just a friar! I can swear all I want— bugger bloody salt-peter!" He used a deep voice for Van Helsing's line and his own for his own and by the time he was done the Writer was having a conniption fit.
"Why are you talking to yourself?" she gasped in between snerks.
"You're the Writer, you ought to know," said Carl grumpily, then turned and ran for Van Helsing. Narrowly avoiding being hit by a car himself, he finally captured the irate monster hunter by the arm. Exerting the full force of his strength, he tugged.
Van Helsing didn't budge.
"Van Helsing!"
"Carl! What are you doing here?"
"Trying to get you out of harm's way, as usual. Come on."
"Carl, you don't understand. My job— what I get paid for— is killing evil. I can sense evil. These things— Van Helsing stabbed a gloved finger at a late-model Subaru. "These things are evil."
"Right," said Carl after a slight pause. "Come on, Van Helsing." He began to drag Van Helsing out of the middle of the street. It was a slow process.
"But I must destroy the evil ones!" said Van Helsing, dragging his feet. Carl pulled harder. "I must annihilate the wicked! Destroy the demons! Kill, kill, kill!"
"Bloodlust," muttered Carl to himself. "What a moment for it to strike."
"Kill!" shouted Van Helsing, planting his foot on the ground and halting Carl's painstaking progress. "Kill! Kill!"
All seemed dark and Carl was about to despair when two hands joined his on Van Helsing's arm. Carl looked up into the lovely eyes of—
Well. Not the Writer, because that'd make this a Mary-Sue fic, wouldn't it?
— lovely eyes of Jenny, a preternaturally stupid girl who, nevertheless, has lovely eyes. Soft inspirational music seemed to bound joyfully about their ears as they looked at each other, taking each other in. Carl disliked her immediately.
Anyway, she helped him pull Van Helsing back on to the sidewalk. Van Helsing got off a last few crossbow bolts into the crowded street as he went, but no one was fatally injured and so no charges were pressed.
England is, after all, a nice place to be. Some of the onlookers, in fact, thought the whole deal was rather funny, but their names were Rik Mayall and Adrian Edmonson, and so everyone completely ignored them.
