"Where the fuck am I?"
Talion looked down at the orcess, blinking in the unexpected glare of the ceiling spots. Classic "boob plate" armour, quite a cleavage on her, unexpectedly (and improbably) glossy thigh-high boots on surprisingly shapely legs for an orcess, quite pouty lips (currently drawn back to reveal snarling fangs – it appeared she wasn't a morning person). Celebrimbor's voice in his head muttered creation of an over-sexed teenage boy.
"You're probably right," Talion muttered.
"Wha'?" grunted the orcess.
"Sorry, wasn't talking to you."
She pushed herself into a sitting position. Her ample breasts jiggled as she did so, in a somewhat distracting manner. (Breasted boobily down the stairs came the other voice in his head … Shut up Celebrimbor, let me talk to her.)
"Uh… This is the green room. Where we all hang out between fics."
"Green room? Fics?" The orcess eyed him suspiciously, claws fingering her sword hilt. "What sort of shit you been smoking? You don't make any sense."
Talion felt a sharp elbow dig him in the ribs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a small, dishevelled (or should that be, even more dishevelled) orc had appeared by his side. "Out of the way, tark. You're just not on the same wavelength as 'er. Let me talk to 'er."
Ratbag, eponymously ratty strands of hair scraped across his skull, knelt down beside the orcess.
"Right, what you've gorra know about tarks and their hangers on is they like stories. Some of 'em even tell their own. And that's where you come in – you're a character out of one of their stories. Now there's a sort of pecking order here. You're at the bottom of the heap, snaga. You was made up by some kid mucking about on her – actually in your case, more likely his – computer in his mum's basement. You're an 'original character', lowest of the low. Me 'n Talion…"
"And me, Celebrimbor," came a strange, fluting voice from Talion's lips.
"Yeah, and Golug-weirdo-spirit-thingy there who shares head-space wiv Talion. Don't ask. I don't understand it either. Anyway, we're characters from a computer game spin off of the main story, which makes us distinctly second rate. Top of the tree is them over there…" Ragbag pointed a grubby hand, unmentionable stains beneath his claws, towards a group on the other side of the room. "They is the actual canon characters from the actual original book."
The orcess still looked puzzled. Ratbag scratched his scrofulous head, wondering where to go next. As he did so, the room of the door swung open, and a rather harrassed-looking man and women entered. Talion clocked their arrival.
"It might be easier if we just went and eavesdropped on what's going on," he said. "Those two are the assistant directors, with today's scripts (if you can dignify this shit with that name) and call lists. Let's go and see what torture they're going to put the canon characters through today."
"How do you know it's not for us?"
"Because, Ratbag," Talion said with a grin, "It's the run up to Christmas – that's what the fanfic writers call Mettare. Season of goodwill to all men (except canon fanfic characters) and also of really cheesy seasonal cross-overs. No-one writes cheesy seasonal cross-overs about undead Rangers of Gondor partially possessed by undead Elves gone bad, plus their orcish side-kicks. What they gonna call it? No Love Lost, Actually? It's a Fucking Ugly Life? Elf (but the gone bad, undead sort)? Bad Santa (didn't even come close to these motherfuckers)? No, we get a bit of a break this time of year. Those guys take the hit. So let's just go and listen in to what horrors await them."
As they did their best to slope unobtrusively across the room, Ratbag tried his hand at small talk.
"So, what they call you?"
"Marzash," said the orcess.
"So, err, you got anyone, y'know?"
"Fuck off."
Ratbag's shoulders drooped below even their normal state. Not that he was entirely surprised. It wasn't like knock-backs, of all types, were exactly an unknown feature of his life.
The three (four if you counted Celebrimbor) took up station lurking in the shadows of a large-ish pine tree which unaccountably seemed to have been placed in the corner of the room. Or at least, they would have lurked in the shadows if the sodding thing hadn't been festooned with brightly coloured, twinkling lights. Still, they reckoned the glittering baubles and swags of strange glittery fluff would act as a distraction. They turned their attention to the group of people (of various types) sitting on three sofas surrounding a low table.
"So, what have you got for us?" The man posing the question was tall, dark (typically Numenorean, thought Talion), with an air of command (House of the Stewards, he wondered).
"Nothing for you, Aragorn" said the slightly harassed looking man. "It's a Rom-Com. You're not really Rom-Com ready."
There was a quiet snort of laughter from the incredibly beautiful Elf-woman sitting next to him.
The woman with the bundle of scripts under her arm took up where the man had left off. "Christmas cross-over remake of Miss Congeniality. Éowyn in the title role as grumpy, untidy FBI agent pitched into having to go undercover as a beauty queen." This time it was the turn of a tall, immensely broad blond man to snort with laughter. The blonde woman next to him elbowed him in the ribs, and he exhaled with an "oof".
"Faramir as her FBI partner and eventual love-interest, of course. Arwen as Miss Rhode Island. Elrond takes the Michael Caine role as the man tasked with the impossible – turning beer-swigging tom-boy Éowyn into beauty queen material. Lady Galadriel as the former beauty queen turned pageant organiser, and Gimli in the William Shatner role as her side-kick. We haven't cast Lady Galadriel's son yet. Here are the scripts." She handed out bundles of paper.
The group sat on the sofas in silence, thumbing through their copies. Eventually Éowyn spoke.
"What does Tougher sanctions for parole violators mean?"
The harassed-looking woman explained.
Éowyn gave a broad smile, then said, "I can get down with that. But how about beefing the dialogue up a bit? Death by single combat for parole violators… and world peace bought with the blood of our foes."
"Err, Christmas Rom-Com, people. Light hearted fluff," the male assistant director said. Éowyn looked rather disappointed.
It was Galadriel's turn next.
"I like this. I mean, I really like this. Finally I get to go full-on bad. All shall love me and despair."
"I, on the other hand, do not," Faramir chipped in. "Look at this whole section. My character's a creepy perve who uses computer graphics to picture what all his female colleagues would look like in their underwear. Just… no."
"It's all right," said harassed woman. "It's part of your story arc. Later, when you're all watching Éowyn on the pin-camera, and Elrond goes to stick chicken fillets down her cleavage, you get up and stand in front of the TV scheme saying 'she's a professional and our colleague'. Because you've grown, and learned, and started to fall for her."
"What!" Faramir exploded. "I know you're beyond reproach, Lord Elrond, but you are still not sticking chicken fillets down my wife's cleavage." He glared at the two assistant directors then added, "Besides, you have no idea how much I hate character arcs. Did I have a character arc in the original? No, I did not. I was decent and honourable throughout. It was that fool Peter Jackson who insisted I must have a character arc and go from bad to redeemed in the movies. I hate bloody character arcs." He through the stack of papers onto the table where they scattered in all directions, then stomped off.
"Well, that was quite the flounce," said Gimli. "You've just lost your leading man." He paused, then called "Legolas… we need you."
Éowyn rapidly thumbed through the rest of the script. "Hang on a moment… I have to snog the other FBI agent at the end. I'm sorry, Legolas, I'm not snogging someone with better hair than me. I'm out too."
"So, we need a new leading lady too," said Gimli. He looked around the group on the sofas, then started to cast his gaze round the wider room. It came to rest on the cluster lurking next to the Christmas tree. He gave an evil cackle. "Hey, you, love, with the fangs and cleavage, what's your name?"
Legolas blanched visibly. Galadriel clapped her hands in delight.
"No, Legolas, she's perfect. She's exactly right for the role."
The Prince of Mirkwood shot the Lady of the Golden Wood a look that would have curdled milk. Galadriel merely smiled, and patted him on the head.
"Meet cute. That's all you've got to remember. Meet cute..."