0000

Chapter Nine

0000

"…since we'll be facing astounding numbers with unknown weaponry, and them having the strategic advantage and all—"

"Uh-huh."

"—we're going to have to employ some kind of decisive technique, in this case, the fact that teenage girls are largely slaves to their hormones. We call it Operation: BISHIE. It's an acronym, we just don't know what for yet. Makes a good acronym, though, wouldn't you say?"

"Sure."

"All we have to do is strategically place hot bishies willing to kiss each other, or at least willing to kiss each other for bribes and mouthwash, preferably actual homosexuals. We'll also have bishies just standing their being bishies for the less yaoi-inclined, and have the rest of the forces move in, effectively crippling their army—"

"Cool."

"—so once we get the infantry in line and sort out the battalion commanders, we can attack at midnight and attempt to capture Marie when her army is weakened. Well, a rough approximation of midnight, anyway. Since we don't know how exactly she plans to bring down the Wall, we will have to be swift, and interrogate her posthaste." Nikki rolled up the unnecessarily fancy scroll and cleared her throat. "What do you think?"

Jenna stroked Fluffy's fur (she was actually raking her fingernails through his lack-of-fur as a persisting reminder that he was not to entertain any notions of escape, but nonetheless) and kicked her feet. "It's a nice battle plan and everything," she said, "but why are you telling it to me?"

Nikki deflated. "Because nobody else wanted to listen to it after the third time," she mumbled. "Oh, by the way, before I forget—D told me to tell you to remember Rule One."

Jenna nodded, then frowned. "Hmm."

Nikki's curiosity got the best of her. "What's Rule One?"

"Ooh, that depends. Which Rule One?"

"There's more than one Rule One?"

"Uh-huh!" Jenna said brightly. "D says that all the rules had to be remembered, and if she gave them numbers then I'd think some were less important. So they're all Rule One. There's a Rule One that says to run away very fast from little bald crinkly old smiling men telling me to try to hit them," she counted off on her fingers. "Another says to never get involved in a land war in Asia. Then there's the rule that says to not talk about Fight—um, never mind. Maybe she meant the first Rule One she mentioned, which is never to bother her when she's on her break."

"Right," Nikki said slowly. "Maybe."

"Hey, where is she, by the way?"

D had wandered back into base toting a severely brain-addled and still mumbling Aline, told them to have fun dealing with their new super weapon, pointed at Aline and the animate trunk following her, and left again, muttering to herself in a way that suggested caffeine overdose had finally gotten her. No one had seen her since. "Uh," Nikki said. "On break."

"Oh." Jenna pouted. "She was going to teach me the evil eye. It's supposed to make grown men cry on sight."

Nikki looked at her. Where D was the personification of all things grey, dismal and world weary, Jenna, much to her chagrin, remained staunchly in the territory of happy bunnies and unicorns skipping through fields of flowers. Never mind the fact that the bunnies were probably heartless killers with a taste for human blood and the unicorns probably spent their time goring people with their conveniently-placed horns, and the flowers were actually cleverly disguised carnivorous poppies designed to first numb and then devour any unlucky sod who wandered into the field.

"Good luck with that," she said encouragingly. "Now then, about Aline—"

"Who?"

"Our underdog."

Jenna remained uncomprehending.

"The stringy nervous girl? Carries a book? Probably some kind of small rodent in a past life?"

The blank stare melted away. "Oh! So she's…not a random wanderer?"

"I know, I know. But, y'see, she may look like the kind of useless load we keep around as the audience surrogate, but she is, after all, the underdog. Not to mention her apparently singular ability to use Writer's Blocks without dying painfully is actually kinda sorta useful." Jenna did not seem to be getting it. "Meaning we would want her around when the shit hits the fan," Nikki prompted. Jenna just rolled her eyes as if she really didn't see how, but was going to humor her.

"So, seeing as I have an army to whip into shape, please make sure she doesn't do anything stupid in the meantime." Nikki paused. "And by anything stupid, I mean anything, period."

"Uh-huh," Jenna said, dragging her fingernails through Fluffy's ragged fur again. "You realize that you're asking your ten-year-old sister to babysit a teenager, right?"

Nikki was silent for a moment. "Yep," she replied. "See to it, would you?"

Jenna sighed as another conspicuously convenient explosion drew Nikki away. She held up Fluffy to arm's length and asked, "What do you think? Wander around the trench looking for whatsherface, or stay here and do better things with our time?"

"Please, destroy me," said Fluffy, his sad yellow eyes shimmering behind half-closed lids. His ears seemed to be drooping—all of him seemed to be, actually. "I do not wish to exist any longer."

"Yeah," Jenna agreed, thoughtful, "You're right. She's probably just sitting around somewhere feeling sorry for herself."

"I beg of you, have mercy!" Fluffy pleaded in a surprisingly deep voice for a rabbit. "I haven't done anything to deserve this! Grant me oblivion, terrible one. Have pity."

"You're so cute," Jenna cooed. "Now come on, it's time for your experimental growth hormones."

0000

Aline sat on the trunk with her knees brought up to her chest feeling sorry for herself.

Like most suburban middle-class teenagers, feeling sorry for herself was a hobby she often engaged in. In fact, self-pity is ranked as the third most popular sport among teenagers (surpassed by obnoxious whining and basketball, just barely breaking even with iPod worship, the fastest-growing religion in her home dimension).

Aline was among the top in the world. While her levels of My life just blows and No one understands me were about average, there was just something about her that made her a self-pitying genius. Perhaps it was the unfortunate combination of genes that contrived to make her features seem on the edge of tears even when she was smiling. Perhaps it was her general inability to be useful and likable. Perhaps it was the same essential Alineness that made posters and house plants sag in defeated misery in her presence, the very same Alineness that made most people simply not notice her and forget her existence within seconds if they did. Perhaps it was all these things, but somehow, without even knowing it, she currently held a total of forty-five trophies for the International Self-Pity Slalom, more than anybody else in her home dimension.

Starving diseased orphans in brutal war-torn countries weren't allowed in official competitions, naturally.

At the moment, Aline was engaging in some of the finest self-pity she had ever accomplished.

It was in the way her lower lip protruded just about enough to trip over when walking. It was in the way her eyes were shiny with unshed tears, somehow only altering her normal facial structure only slightly. It was in the curled up fetal position she was in, although in fairness, she was in such a position due to the fact that she was convinced that Trunkie would gnaw her legs off if she wasn't careful. Since it—he?—had been following her relentlessly, she decided the best way to avoid it was to huddle on top of it, under the assumption that trunks didn't have any natural aerial predators and wouldn't think to look for her there.

Once upon a time, she knew, she would have found that sort of thinking strange.

Trapped in the wrong dimension, the only sane woman in a sea of loonies, terrified of a bloody trunk, pushed around by ten year olds, not respected even as the only person able to use a weapon of awesome destructive power, told to shut up more times than she could count, Aline was beginning to feel a little bit put out.

She tried to think positively.

There was the fact that the Writer's Blocks had stopped affecting her creativity after a while. She didn't feel the need to describe anything in terms of barely comprehensible metaphor, nor use gemstones in place of colors, though she still had the slight inclination to refer to eyes as orbs. That was something.

Aline thought about the positives some more. Nothing came to mind, and the negatives were starting to jostle for room. For example, she'd just been threatened with death again, this time by a pair of element-oriented teenagers who were apparently very tired of hearing that they looked cute together.

Out of nowhere, a thought: why should I have to put up with this?

This was not a thought people like Aline normally had. People like Aline did things by convincing themselves they didn't need to be done. People like Aline sat quietly in the background keeping their minds off things until whatever was going on had ended and the world was safe again. People like Aline tried not to think dangerous questions too loudly in case somebody heard and answered. When people like Aline had traitorous thoughts like why should I have to put up with this?, they hurriedly stuffed them into the depths of their sock drawers and went to bed early.

She straightened. Yeah, she thought, why do I have to put up with this?

The thought was louder this time, more deliberate, and heedless of any passing mind readers. She was feeling brave at the moment, so she risked speaking it aloud. "Why should I have to put up with this?" She had intended for it to come out an angry and indignant shout, but a lifetime spent as a doormat caused it to leave her throat as a vaguely annoyed mutter.

Nobody came running up to her demanding she stop immediately. Heartened, she stood up, balancing on Trunkie's lid, crossed her arms and tried again. "Why should I have to put up with this?" Better this time, louder, with much more impressive levels of anger and indignity, but she felt she could do better.

She stood up, wobbling only slightly." Why should I have to put up with this?" she demanded of the unsky.

When it gave no answer, the disreputable part of her mind that you didn't want to roam after dark supplied: you don't.

"That's right!" she announced. "I don't! I damn well don't!" Aline laughed, drunk on something alien and exhilarating. Why should I have to put up with this invited his friends I won't stand for it and I could do something over for drinks and foosball. Thoughts like these found themselves on top fifty lists with titles like 'Most Likely To Get You Killed'. Cliché Compendium warns that 'having and—god forbid—acting on any of these thoughts will in all likelihood result in death, decapitation, character development, and awe-inspiring life lessons. Possibly all four, though not necessarily in that order'.

Aline wondered what not having to put up with it entailed.

When she came up with nothing, the shadier side of her cerebrum suggested that she leave.

Leave what? the rest of Aline questioned.

The trench, you bloody idiot, it said.

A long pause, then: "Yeah," she said slowly. "I could, couldn't I?"

She staunchly ignored the bemused voice of Common Sense wondering when he'd been replaced by Principle.

"Right," Aline muttered, sliding off of the trunk and scowling. "Come into my universe and drag me into this mess, will they? Think they can just walk all over me, do they? Well, I'll show them! I will! Right, Trunkie?"

In a wooden way, Trunkie seemed to agree.

"Exactly! I could handle it out there. I've been out there, what, three times now? Four?I can handle it easy. And I'll be away from here. That'll show them, won't it? See how they get on without their underdog."

Trunkie opened its lid and slammed it shut again in what seemed to be an affirmative way.

"Right then! Moving onwards!" She took a few decisive steps toward the wall, only to stop suddenly, remembering. After a few trial-and-error attempts to get Trunkie to open ("Open Sesame" was apparently cliché enough to suffice), she stuffed a few in her pockets. Upon contact, she got off a few extremely witty lines of dialogue before the tolerance set in and she was left scrolling through creative adjectives under her breath. She managed only a few more steps before Trunkie stood up on hundreds of little legs and attempted to follow her.

"Er," she said, looking at it helplessly. She shifted uncomfortably and took a few more steps. She waved vaguely at it. "Shoo."

It stopped dead. It snapped its lid in a betrayed manner.

"Look, it's been nice," she said. "But I'd really rather set off alone. Nothing personal," she added in a murmur.

It stared at her mournfully, insofar as it had eyes with which to stare. Eventually, it shuffled off sadly, leaving hundreds and hundreds of little footprints in its wake. Aline found herself feeling vaguely guilty.

"Right," Aline muttered again. She suddenly remembered about the other weight in her pocket—the Compendium. For reasons she could not fully explain, she extracted it and looked at it for several moments. Whatever ambient light could exist in this world reflected off of its leafing, the gleaming gold mocking her. She ran a finger over the exquisitely thin pages. It was a beautiful volume. This was not a book to be tossed aside lightly.

No, she thought, hefting it. Not lightly at all.

With all the strength she could muster, she threw it down the length of the trench. It bounced twice, coming to a stop spine up some ten yards away, its beautiful spine facing the unsky, its thin pages creasing and folding under its weight. Dust that had not been there until something had come along to kick it up began to settle on it.

"And don't come back!" she yelled hoarsely and vaulted herself over the wall and out into the empty expanse in a move that wouldn't have been possible if she'd be one iota less righteously indignant.

It didn't.

It wouldn't for a while.

0000

It was a dark and stormy night.

"Actually, it was quite cloudless, and it was early morning with all the street lamps lit, so it wasn't dark, per se."

Shut up. It was still pretty dark.

"It was a reasonably dim and cloudless morning, then."

Yes, fine. It was a reasonably dim and cloudless morning. The relative dramatic quality of the event was not lessened, so it doesn't matter.

In a dark alley somewhere in the less reputable part of Belfast, a swirling cyan vortex appeared a few feet from the ground. It went, fwoosh. From within its mysterious depths, a shadowed figure streaked through, landing on the ground with an aerial flip and a solid landing. Or at any rate, that was the intent; in reality, the figure attempted this, lacked the necessary inertia for any flipping whatsoever, let alone of the aerial variety, and ended up flopping onto the ground like a wet fish.

"Goddammitto fucking hell," the figure muttered, brushing itself off and rubbing the sore spot on which it landed. It glanced from side to side shiftily, unseen eyes gleaming. Having satisfied itself that nobody had spotted it, though why precisely being spotted would be a setback was unclear, the figure shoved its hands in its pockets and left the alley.

A bloated moon hung low on the horizon, casting long, spidery shadows. The figure's long coat blew out slightly behind it in a suitably darkly impressive manner. It wore a hat. It was a very nice hat. More importantly, it obscured the figure's face when it inclined its head.

It was all very noir.

Unseen in the shadows but ever-present nonetheless, D strode forward with rather more confidence than she felt.

In the Hub, war was brewing. Skirmishes and minor battles had been popping up occasionally, had been since as long as she could remember, but soon all-out body-piling carnage would begin. D should have been there, however little she savored the idea of even temporary death. If nothing else, she had promised.

D knew she was playing right into that damned author's hands, doing this sentimental junk. She knew it wasn't logical in the least—the people she sought couldn't possibly turn the tide of the battle significantly enough to warrant the kind of duty-shirking she was engaging in, especially since she didn't even know what state she'd find them in. It wasn't even in the plot, the ever-loving bloody plot that popped up whenever that stringy kid was around.

The sun was just breaking over the horizon in an arguably extremely symbolic manner. D stopped to look at it, because it seemed like the kind of thing you ought to do.

She could already hear Nikki talking her ear off when she got back. But what could you do? If the Fourth Wall went down, the worlds would be in flux—and this was family.