CHAPTER III
"A Black Eyed Dog He Called At My Door..." -- Nick Drake

Knowledge flowed through his mind, a powerful, rushing tide against which no one idea could anchor for more than a fraction of a second. He thought of everything and nothing at once, his brain so saturated by understanding the world and everything in it that he no longer had the capacity to interact with his surroundings. He did not see the days passing by, nor did he taste the cup of tea that someone lifted to his lips. So he sat, on the front porch of eternity, a frail human shell that contained the whole library of mankind.

There was a dog in front of him. He blinked, a rare moment of lucidity permitting him to focus on something in his environment. The overwhelming tide of knowledge crept in at the edge of his field of vision, and his brain instantly drew up encyclopedic streams of superfluous information. Canis familiaris, the domestic dog, most commonly kept as... Belgian Tervuren, one of two varieties commonly known in Europe as Belgian Shepherds. Originally bred for stock herding... Black dog, one of many signs believed by the superstitious to forecast death...

The torrent of knowledge began to wash away the clear image before his eyes, and he struggled against it desperately. How he wanted to stay conscious! The dog was fading, farther and farther from his vision, and he reached for it uselessly. If only he could touch it, focus on it, think about nothing else for a moment, then perhaps he could regain some control over his thoughts! He would think about the dog, first. Then perhaps he might begin to think about other things. If only he could see, if only he could reach it...

He lurched to his feet, staggering forward on weak, disused limbs. The dog turned and disappeared behind the hedge, and he stumbled after it.

- - -

Enishi stared up at the sign over the massive gate, wondering whether it was actually possible for a ranch to walk in the sky, as the name suggested. Beside him, Dilandau mindlessly drew arcane symbols in the brown dust. Sephiroth had left them here and disappeared inside when the scorching sun was directly overhead; now it hung low in the sky, almost touching the horizon, and still their leader had not reappeared. Ostensibly they were here to stand guard, but in the hours they'd been here they had only encountered two groups of people -- the first, a chattering group of travelers with cameras around their necks, who paused only long enough to photograph the entrance to the massive complex, and the second, a strange party dressed from head to toe in shiny white armor. They, too, took photographs of each other standing in front of the sign and quickly departed. The only other visitor had been a small lizard, which Dilandau had found under a rock and dispatched in his own disturbing yet inimitable manner.

The world of the Authors, he had decided, could be incredibly boring. Their last couple of visits hadn't been too bad; he'd been threatened by dogs, he'd had a high-speed highway chase... but this trip had been less eventful. He only hoped that Sephiroth finished his business here quickly so they could move on to some place more interesting.

Just when Enishi was about to resume pacing up and down the fence, he heard a faint whoosh and glanced up. Sephiroth stood balanced on the top of the sign, looking down at his subordinates with a strange expression on his face. After a moment, he stepped off of the sign and dropped to the ground beside Enishi as gracefully as if he had merely stepped off of the curb, rather than falling more than twice his own height.

Enishi did not ask what had transpired inside the complex, but he eyed his leader for an indication of whether or not the trip had been productive. Sephiroth still wore his unreadable expression, but when he caught Enishi looking at him, he shrugged.

"Well," Sephiroth said simply, "the damage is done."

Enishi pondered this for a few seconds. "To us, or to them?" he asked.

Sephiroth chuckled mirthlessly. "I have introduced this world to something horrible beyond imagining," he murmured, watching Dilandau scribble formulae in the dirt. "I have installed it in one of the major franchises. And if fortune favors us, it will spread from there." He paused, and glanced out toward the setting sun in a rare moment of contemplation. "I only hope," he added gravely, "that we must never encounter it ourselves."

A moment later, the desert vanished as Sephiroth brought them all back to their headquarters. Enishi tried to orient himself as the familiar chrome and leather furnishings appeared around them. By the time he regained his equilibrium, Sephiroth was far ahead of them, moving down the hallway toward the holding cells.

Enishi jogged to catch up, and nearly collided with Sephiroth's shoulder armor as his leader stopped suddenly. He reeled backward, knocking into Dilandau, who squawked in protest and slapped him viciously in the kidneys.

Sephiroth didn't seem to hear the noise his lieutenants were making; he was gazing blissfully at the door of one of the cells. "It seems," he said to no one in particular, "that our little Rosaleen has completed her assignment." His head tipped back and to the side, and Enishi shivered as his leader's aquamarine eyes brushed lazily across him to rest on Dilandau.

"Dilandau," he purred, "run and fetch Vergil and Vanduri for me, would you?" It was not a request; Dilandau pouted a little at the dismissal, but disappeared down the hallway. Sephiroth straightened again, all business, and opened the door.

- - -

"Marry! I' truth, the world is gone quite mad!" lamented Yorick, his voice muffled. The former jester wrestled with something shaped like a bucket that covered his head. Priss suppressed a chuckle as she reached over to help him remove the helmet.

"Sorry," she said when Yorick's sweating face was finally visible. "I'm afraid that's what they're wearing these days. You have to try to blend in, you know."

"Must I this plate of armor wear, to hide? It is, alas! quite hard to breathe inside," he continued, panting slightly. He cast a loaded glance at the young man who had just come through the portal behind him.

Wilmer shrugged off his partner's glare and flicked at the narrow braid that dangled over the shoulder of his homespun tunic. "Hey, I'm looking the part, too, get me? I'm impersonatin' a Jetty. If you didn't talk so crazy, you wouldn't have to make like a Droid so's to get a piece of the action." He produced a cigarette from some hidden pocket and tapped it on his thumbnail.

Priss was steadying Yorick as he wriggled out of the bright metal box that had concealed his body. "It's Jedi, Wilmer, not Jetty. And don't smoke in here."

"Yeah, yeah." Wilmer rolled his eyes and sulked characteristically. "I'm gonna go take a breather." He slouched off down the hall, digging in his shirt for a book of matches.

Priss sighed and turned back to Yorick. "The debriefing's in fifteen minutes. Take a break and get something to drink. I'm going to see if I can drag the delinquent back in time for the meeting."

- - -

Rosaleen was slumped against the cell wall in a carefully constructed but not-quite-cool slouch. Her jaw worked on the ever-present chewing gum, and the motion called attention to the bright red smear of her mouth. Enishi grimaced at the color and glanced down to the shepherd beside her. The dog lay on the floor, its head resting on its paws, looking as if it dearly wanted to close off the rest of the world and take a nap.

Sephiroth ignored the girl and the dog and headed for the chair in the center of the room. Enishi stepped to the side to get a clear view of their latest acquisition.

A single man, a little shy of middle age, sat in the plain wooden chair. He was neatly dressed, with cropped blond hair and clean-shaven face, but there was an air of neglect about him, like a brightly-polished sword left too long on the wall without use. Enishi couldn't place the feeling; perhaps it came from his restless, unfocused eyes or the slack line of the man's mouth.

Sephiroth stood before the chair. He leaned close to the man's face, searching for a response from the dim blue eyes, but the prisoner did not seem to see his surroundings.

Sephiroth smiled, a slow, beatific uncoiling that Enishi had learned to fear. "Hello, Joe," Sephiroth purred, eyes still fixed on their guest, "what do you know?" One long, black-gloved finger stretched out to touch the blond man's forehead. Enishi caught the faint glow and crackle of energy in the dim cell, and the prisoner's body lurched in a spasm.

A few seconds passed before Sephiroth stepped back, surveying his work. The blond man blinked a few times, and then his eyes swung slowly around the room, sweeping across Enishi and Sephiroth. When his gaze came to rest on the dog, his eyes widened in recognition. One hand twitched in his lap.

Sephiroth gave a satisfied nod. "Now, at lest he'll be ambulatory and follow direct orders," he said, and turned to Enishi. "Get rid of the girl and dog and then join me. We have a message to send."

"A message?" Enishi echoed before he could stop himself. Their organization was entirely self-contained; who else would they need to communicate with?

Sephiroth chuckled, divining his thoughts. "Yes," he answered, gesturing back toward the man in the chair. "Our new friend needs to send an urgent message... to the SPCFC."

- - -

The First Director lounged at the head of the briefing room table, looking deceptively relaxed. He glanced up appreciatively as his aide Wendy set a fresh cup of tea next to the bowler hat at his elbow.

The rest of the personnel around the table didn't appear to share his serenity. Near the Director, a brown-haired woman in a short red jacket was attempting to sort a jumble of papers into organized stacks. Beside her, a young blonde restlessly rifled through a pile of color-coded file folders. Across the table sat a surly-looking youth who alternated tapping a pencil and his fingernails on the tabletop. For several minutes the silence continued, perforated only by Priss' shuffling and Wilmer's impatient tapping.

At last the door opened to admit Yorick, still looking a bit wilted after his time in the metal suit. He slumped wordlessly into a chair and stared longingly at the tea the Director was sipping.

"Well, then," said Steed cheerfully, setting down his teacup. "Now that we're all assembled, let's get started, shall we?"

Doujima set down her stack of files and glanced around at the empty seats. Even after the loss of Alfred, there seemed to be too many open chairs. "Is Mireille still on leave?" she asked, trying to picture the personnel who were normally present at Ops meetings.

Privately, Doujima thought that their new operative might already be a better member of the team than certain other young men who were present -- but for once, she didn't voice her counsel. The last time she had insulted Wilmer, he mistakenly interpreted it as a compliment and began to follow her around, slouching dramatically against strategic doorways in an attempt to catch her eye. This had gone on for weeks, until an unfortunate shoulder injury (sustained when he was caught between a rapidly-closing door and the metal jamb) forced him to stop. Doujima wasn't about to start that aggravating game again -- especially since the reconstruction, during which many of the solid-wood doors had been replaced with hollow fiberboard. The new doors didn't slam nearly as well as the old ones...

"She was scheduled to return earlier this week, but after that incident on the freeway, we gave her a few extra days," Priss answered without looking up from the documents in front of her. "She'll be rejoining us tomorrow morning. And as Mr. Lockwood is still in training, we thought it best not to involve him. We're limiting him to two cases per week until he gets into the routine."

Steed's voice interrupted her line of thought before she could devise any new methods of tormenting Wilmer. "Just to review, since I think most of us are already aware of the situation, I'd like to run through the information we've already collected. Miss Asagiri, if you please?"

The brunette pushed back the sleeves of her red jacket and pulled a file toward her on the tabletop. "The universe in question, which, if you'll refer to your reference lists, comprises the components SW-IVf, SW-Vf, SW-VIf, SW-Da, the obscure SW-CSt, as well as several hundred print titles, started out as a fairly stable world." She turned a page in and skimmed a few highlighted notes. "According to my report, we've only had to interfere a handful of times to straighten out errors or logical fallacies in the canon, such as the so-called 'parsec glitch.' However, it appears that the creator began to lose his grasp on the overall concept some time ago, and the universe has suffered as a result. We'd noticed a few abnormalities before this, but it seems that there have been some major upsets in the most recent installment, primarily in the form of continuity flaws. We suspect that canon was altered after it had already been established, either internally, or by some external influence on the creator. The patterns we're seeing now indicate that there is an active anomaly, in the form of either a character or a plot device." Priss closed the file and looked back at Steed.

The Director took another sip from his teacup. "Thank you, m'dear. I understand that Yorick and Wilmer have spent the past few days collecting additional data. Gentlemen, what do you have to share with us?"

Yorick did not immediately answer; his eyes were glued to the cup of tea that Wendy was graciously pouring him. He acknowledged Steed's question with a faint wave of his hand, signaling that Wilmer should go first.

Wilmer shrugged. "They're nuts, for starters, the lot of 'em," he muttered. "They fight each other with sticks of light, 'stead of with proper guns." He fished in his pocket and produced a toothpick, which he stuck in his mouth so that it bobbed on his lip with every word. "An' there's this slick Jetty cat who moves things around just by thinkin' it, though he says that it's 'cause of some invisible force all around us." Wilmer gestured vaguely with the toothpick. "But I didn't see the scary thing. You'll have to ask him about the ano-mally."

Steed nodded and made a note on a pad in front of him, almost as if Wilmer's report had contained useful information, and turned to Yorick expectantly. "You think you've found something that fits the pattern of the anomaly?"

The jester had nearly finished the cup of tea, and looked much the better for it. He nodded and began his report:

"It is, in truth, a strange and foreign land.
The earth is dry, and cover'd all in sand.
"No birds, nor trees, and not one stick of green --
yet crowded still, this land of Tattooine!
"We visited a place called Mos Eisley,
a wond'rous, yet fair frightening city.
"And coming out of the cantina there,
I met a thing that fill'd me all with fear!
"Hid in my metal shell like an oyster,
I saw, half beast, half man -- a vile monster.
"His ears hung low; his lips were swollen, too.
His skin was rough, a sickly greenish hue.
"I thought, 'If there be evil in this place,
'Then surely it be writ in yonder face!'
"At terror's edge, I teeter'd on the brink;
he introduced himself as... as..."

Here, Yorick coughed, then took a large gulp of tea to steady himself before he could finish. "He introduced himself... as Jar-Jar Binks."

There were gasps all around the table. Although they had never seen the character, the name itself seemed somehow an ill portent. After a moment's stunned immobility, Priss began writing furiously on her notepad, occasionally referring to the files in front of her for information.

Steed sat back, less shaken than the others at the table, but far from unaffected. "Doujima," he said after a moment, "I want you to help Priss research this. If this... thing... came from outside of canon, we need to isolate and purge it as soon as possible. Yorick, Wilmer... I hate to send you back into danger, but we need to track this creature's movements closely. You two will return and monitor the situation, but do not under any circumstances attempt to make contact with the character in question. If it is the anomaly, the results could be catastrophic." Steed gathered his notes into a stack and slid them into a folder. "Any questions?"

There was general head-shaking around the table, and Steed nodded in satisfaction. "Very well, then," he said. "Yorick, Wilmer, get some rest. We'll start again first thing in the morning."

- - -

Wendy blinked at the screen and rubbed her eyes. She glanced at the clock over the door, trying to clear her blurry vision, and smothered a yawn. She'd volunteered to stay late and catch up on some of the paperwork that had been stacking up in the Directors' inboxes, but she really didn't function well at night. The offer had been made partially out of guilt that she always stayed in the office doing paperwork and drinking tea while the other operatives risked their lives night and day on the field. They'd had to make due with limited manpower and resources after the fire, and since Alfred's death a few weeks ago the Directors had become more and more exhausted. Wendy suspected they would all be better after a good, long vacation -- but of course they couldn't afford the time for that, either.

She resumed typing, promising herself another cup of tea as soon as she finished the letter D. She was trudging through the current list of unfiled characters, cataloging the recyclable heroine personalities in the romance genre. As she finally graduated from a long series of Daphnes and entered her first Darlene, she was interrupted by a flashing signal in the lower corner of the screen.

A message for the Directors, at this hour? Wendy checked the header, but it seemed to come from outside the SPCFC's internal network. Frowning, she opened the message. She would skim the message, and see where it should be filed...

There's no need to alert anyone, Wendy. I know you'll see this first.

Wendy jerked back from the machine as if it had burned her. She forced herself to breathe deeply and slow her racing pulse, then glanced around the room to ensure that no one could be watching. Slowly, she crept back to the screen, and carefully read and reread the rest of the message.

When she was certain she had it memorized, she quietly deleted it.