A/N: I apologize for the long-unattended misprint in the previous chapter. It has now been fixed.

0000

Chapter Twelve

0000

D could practically feel the bags forming under her eyes already. She looked between the address, between the scrap of paper, between the restaurant. She did this several times.

But…how?

She was in America this time, somewhere in a state that probably began with an 'I'. The land was dusty and full of long empty roads, weeds, truckers, and the restaurant she was staring aghast at now.

…how?!

She stood there for a while longer, a dark shape in the noonday sun. A truck went by, leaving a boiling cloud of dust in its wake. Then another, and another.

Suck it up, you goddamn pansy, she told herself eventually, and went inside.

The tiles were a particularly horrid shade of orange. Everything smiled at her with a dimpled yellow half-circle—the seats, the tables, the trashbins, the cashier's hat, the cups. The effect would have been better if the eyes accompanying the smile were not quite so malevolent. She saw promises of her eternal torment in all of them.

Little plastic toys stared maliciously at her from behind a plastic display case. A ceiling fan turned sluggishly in the heat. A few Americans, most of whom were of the unusually sized variety, sat at the booths, consuming what she could only assume was food.

A girl stood behind the cash registers, filing her nails and chewing gum. 'Skinny' did not even begin to cover it. She was a skeleton with skin stretched clumsily over it. Her garish red-and-yellow clothes hung on her toothpick frame like laundry on a line. She was effectively the most realistic stick figure ever drawn.

She was thin enough, in fact, to be considered a great beauty, only her lank hair was thinly clinging to her scalp, and the skin around her sunken eyes was veering on deep purple.

As D walked up to the counter, she flashed a smile that was even less realistic than the décor. "Welcome to McDonalds, how may I serve you?"

"For starters, by telling me what the hell happened to you, you fuckin' crazy bitch," D said in a low monotone.

The plastic smile did not waver. The eyes remained as dead as they ever were. "Welcome to McDonalds, how may I serve you?"

"Fran. Come on. You're freaking me out."

Was that a twitch? D hoped so. "Welcome to McDonalds, how may I—?"

"Shut up! Just…shut up!" D shouted. None of the patrons noticed. Fran shut up, continuing to smile.

"Now stop shutting up and start telling me just what in the name of the nine hells you are doing here."

Fran was, to D's great relief, no longer smiling. "I am serving customers."

"No, you're making a goddamn mess of yourself, that's what, and I as your best friend demand to know why."

At that, she cracked. The corner of her mouth twitched bitterly and she gripped the counter. Her usual glare returned. D never thought she'd be so happy to have someone glare at her so malevolently. "Oh, that's rich," Fran bit out. "Best friend indeed. I think I might laugh. Hah. Hahaha. Hah! Hear how hard I'm laughing? That's because you're so funny, Deb. So. Goddamn. Funny."

"Now that's better," D said with more than a little relief.

"I was serious. I'm pretty pissed at you, actually."

"Huh." D thought about this. "So, it's been the same old, same old with you, huh?"

"Ayup." Fran smacked loudly on her gum and blew a bubble. "You want a Happy Meal or what, bub?"

"Thanks, but I prefer living, and to requisition a new body at this point would be very uncomfortable indeed. I expect the universe to be ending in the near future."

Fran snorted. "Aw, c'mon, this stupid story has taken enough undeserved potshots at fast food already. It ain't that bad."

"At this particular eatery? Food prepared by you? Yeah, right. I still want my original request filled. What the hell happened to you?"

"What do you mean? I've always looked like this. Minus the uniform." She picked at a loose thread on her shoulder. "Though they're really not that bad, once you get past the silly hats. I don't mind the silly hats so much anymore."

"Not that, bimbo, I know what you're damn well supposed to look like. The uniform. The silly hat. The surroundings. The company of what appears to be The Blob That Ate Everything. This is my problem with the situation."

"Hah to the fucking hah, sister. I just happen to appreciate a good bit of humor, yaknow. Irony. Most goddamn sophisticated form of humor there is."

"Yeah, yeah, I know all about your shitty sense of humor," D rolled her eyes, "but spending god-knows-how-long in this place for the sake of a terrible joke is a pretty fucking awful way to live, if you ask me."

The Secondary Horseperson of Famine gave a small shrug. "Yeah, well, what are you doing with your life? Reviewing bad fanfiction or something like that?"

"Yeah, hyuk, hyuk," D said. "Like that would ever happen. Least I'm not working in McDonalds. Or married to a goddamn florist."

"Oh, is that what Wally's been up to? Good for him, the goddamn cheating tool."

"Don't even pretend to be angry. That was over before it even started."

"It was your fault and you know it."

"Was not."

"Was too."

"Was not."

"Slut."

"Bitch."

"Whore."

"Jerk."

There was a long pause filled only with glaring and the noisy sound of the last of a supersized milkshake being sucked away.

Fran opened her arms. "Come here, you complete and utter fuckwit." They embraced. Hugging a stick figure was a near impossibility, but D was used to it.

"So I'm guessing you didn't come here just to enjoy the atmosphere and be insulted," Fran deduced.

D sighed. "I was going to ask you to join the battle for the fate of reality, but after talking to Walter, I don't think my heart is in it anymore."

"So he already said no, huh? Tough break. But I guess you're used to him saying no to you, eh? Zing!" Fran cackled.

D covered her face with her palms in shame. "Author above, your sense of humor is so unbelievably shitty. I feel embarrassed just listening to you."

"Cheer up. You haven't even asked me yet."

"Okay." D leaned forward with her elbows on the counter. "Would you like to join the battle for the fate of reality? Knowing that if my side—the best side, obviously—loses, we'll cease to exist? And, quite aside from that, the entirety of the multiverse will go completely bananas for the rest of forever?"

"Not a chance in hell."

"Yeah, alright," D sighed. "I forgot what an unbelievable asswipe you are."

"What a terrible thing to forget. I feel rather offended." D didn't bother hurling another barb her way. After a few moments Fran's huge-eyed stare dropped downward. "Come on. I'm Famine. A cut-down, bargain-priced Famine who works in a fucking McDonalds. What could I do?"

"Shit, I don't even know." D stared upwards. "Had to ask."

"I don't think I even have my powers anymore."

"Bullshit. Can't lose our powers. It's hardcoded in. We can be lazy and not use them, but that's not the same."

"Yeah?" Fran snorted. "Prove it, O mighty mistress of Death."

Without missing a beat, as if automatically, "The pudgy gentlemen in booth #8 will have an un-fucking-believable mother of a heart attack in four minutes and thirteen seconds. You may want to call an ambulance in advance."

A long pause. "…shit. You do this all the time?"

"Can't turn it off, actually. It's pretty annoying. "

They stood in silence for a minute longer.

"Yeah," D said awkwardly, scrunching together and tilting her hat forward. "I'm gonna find Paul now. Any idea where he is? My sources are pinning him all over the place."

"Might want to check the North Pacific Gyre or somewhere equally disgusting. He's been sort of aimless lately."

"Yeah, alright. Later, you utter tool. Perhaps if reality doesn't disintegrate I'll look you up."

"Later, whore. Have fun with that war thing."

D left. Shortly afterwards, Fran dialed an ambulance and the man in booth #8 had a heart attack.

0000

"Hello, child," a voice said suddenly. It was a kind, all-knowing voice, the sort of voice your favorite teacher would have.

Aline started. She had been staring into the vast blueness beyond the cliffs and had lost track of—well, everything, despite the fact that there was nothing much to lose track of.

"Over here," the voice said again, with slightly more irritation.

Aline craned her neck around and was almost surprised. A woman robed in purest white stood there. A soft halo of gold surrounded her entire body, and her face was beautiful without having any specific feature that made it so. Inasmuch as there was reality on the Hub, she did not seem to be entirely part of it.

Aline was immediately suspicious. "Who're you?" she said bluntly.

The woman smiled beautifically. "I am your guardian angel, child, and I have—"

"Uh huh," Aline said flatly. "And why've I got one of those?"

The glowing woman blinked. "What? What do you mean, why?"

Aline shrugged and folded her arms. "Seems odd, is all."

"Because everyone does," the woman said, nonplussed.

"I bet you're lying."

The alleged angel shook her head without seeming to deny anything. "Never you mind. I have come—"

"Wait, so if you're my guardian angel, why didn't you show up to guard me earlier?" Aline demanded. "Why didn't you appear all glowy and whatnot when I was being dragged here against my will? Was Lost on or something and you really didn't want to have to resort to recaps?"

"Look, it's your destiny," the woman said irritably, tapping her foot. "There are rules, you know."

"Destiny? What?"

"Yes," the angel said immediately, in far more majestic tones. "It is your destiny, child, to—"

Aline was rubbing her chin quizzically. "Now why've I got a destiny?"

"I'm sorry? What kind of question is that?"

"Why's it my destiny to get pushed around and mistreated all the time? Why don't you tell me that, huh? That's a terrible destiny. I demand a new destiny! Can I pull one out of a hat or something? This one sucks. Like, a lot."

"You can't have a new destiny," the angel said flatly. "Would you just listen for five seconds?"

"Is this because of that underdog business again?" Aline groaned. "Not that again."

"No, you twit, there's a prophecy!" That shut Aline up for a few seconds, in which period her eyebrows knit together and she blinked.

"So, uh…prophecy. That's not cliché at all, by the way. What does it say?"

"I cannot tell you," the angel said in sage tones, half-closing her eyes and bowing her head mystically. "Know only that—"

"Whaaaat?" Aline whined. "Why not?"

The angel opened her mouth to answer, lifting an authoritative finger, but lowered it again slowly. There was a short silence. "Actually, that's a good question," she said, brow furrowing. She waved a dismissive hand. "But never mind, that's not what's important right now!"

"Yeah, I know what's important," Aline said, plopping down on the ground with her legs crossed. "Getting me an explanation for this nonsense for starters. Oh, hey, speaking of which, I've been meaning to talk to your boss about it. The big guy upstairs, he's in charge of angels, right? I want to ask about a few things, like suffering and death and Disney Channel original movies, and why there has to be a world specifically for fictional things. It seems a bit silly. And why on earth the platypus exists, that too. Do you think you could get me a meeting with him?"

"No," the angel ground out. "You can't. Look, shut up for a second. The prophecy is vital to the continued survival of the universe. Not just this universe, but all universes! You are destined to save us all!"

"Am I?" Aline said skeptically. "Does this prophecy of yours even rhyme?"

"Yes!" the angel cried. "Yes, it does! What do you say to that?"

Aline thought about it. "I think you're waffling," she said. "Who wrote this prophecy anyway? Under what conditions? Why are you so sure it refers to me? I'm going to need these questions and an additional twenty-item survey answered before I do any prophecy-fulfilling. Look here, glowy-lady, I read a lot, I know the disastrous consequences of wanton prophecy-fulfilling and make no mistake.

"I'm trying to help you!" the angel cried, despairing.

"Really?" Hope touched Aline's eyes, the slightly-sardonic, tentatively-genuine kind of hope that doesn't honestly expect to stick around long. "Can you get me home? I don't care what color shoes I have to go find and click together. I'll click any sort of footwear you want. But let me go home."

"No."

"Some guardian angel you are," Aline muttered, exhaling angrily and flicking a stray lock of hair away from her face. "You know, I bet you're not even a real angel at all. I bet—" She shut up suddenly; something had occurred to her. She looked up and gave an uncharacteristic sly smile. "Oooh, I think I know what you are.

"What?" The woman might have paled. "No, shut up."

"Nuh uh. I know exactly what you are."

"Shut up! Shut up, no you don't!"

Aline grinned rather maniacally. "You're a—"

"That's it!" the woman squealed. "That's it! I was going to help you, I was going to solve all your problems if you'd just listened, but no! Well, you know what? You can just—" Aline never found out what she could just, as at that moment the woman burst into a golden shower of glitter. The shimmering particles floated down to the unground, where they faded to nothing. All that was left of her was a small black box with a bright red button, labeled in large, friendly letters: Deus Ex Machina.

Eventually, Aline said to the silence, "Told you I knew what you were."

0000

"Where the hell are my fucking people!?" Nikki shouted, storming down the length of the mysteriously area-changing trench. She was not pleased—even less pleased than usual.

"As opposed to your regular ones?" a talking skeleton said as she passed it.

"Shut up," she told it absent-mindedly, and continued storming. Nikki was a very fine stormer indeed. A few gray clouds had started gathering around her head and flashing with lightning occasionally.

"Give me that," she snarled at the witch and plucked the mirror from her startled grasp. The mask in the mirror regarded her warily.

"May I help you?"

"Yeah, show me where my main characters are. Can't start a proper final showdown without them, can I now?" This was not strictly true. In actuality, the final showdown couldn't physically start unless all the main characters were present, unless the plot's whims lead them to arrive at the last minute to save the day or some such complication. But Nikki was not a woman known for her patience.

"Please deposit $1.67," the mirror droned.

Nikki muttered darkly under her breath and rummaged through her pockets, inserting two bills into the slot.

"In exact change, if you please." She could have sworn the damn thing was smirking at her.

"How about this," she said reasonably. "You show me what I need to see, and I won't be forced to cause myself seven years of substandard luck."

The mirror sighed. "There's an awful lot of plot matter in the way," it said. "Even a little could block the vision. I'm not sure if I can—"

"Do it anyway!"

The face in the mirror blurred away, leaving a swirling gray fog. Several times she thought it might be resolving into a recognizable picture, but always it faded before she could get a good look.

Eventually a little blue triangle swam into clarity. The words on it read, "Ask again later." She shook it. The gray fog returned, and another set of words on a little blue triangle appeared.

"Reply hazy, try again."

She threw it against the wall. It shattered. Fragments of curses upon her bloodline could just be heard from the shards.

Shoddy goddamn Microsoft products, Nikki thought.

She paced. So many things were going on she almost didn't remember when she'd last seen her fellow main characters. Between the arrangements and brooding and commanding and all…let's see. D had left on some mysterious family business. She hadn't mentioned if she would be back.

Aline was last seen wandering away to mope. The luggage had strutted after her, carrying the Blocks. And Jenna…she'd put Jenna in charge of making sure Aline didn't do anything stupid.

Nikki was suddenly drenched in cold sweat. If she ever got complete control over space and time, as she fully intended to, she mused, the first thing she would do is go back in time and punch herself in the face.

And quite a few other people, too, come to think of it. If Nikki had the time, she'd spend an awful lot of it punching people in the face.

There was no time, she thought. She had to organize the bishies, bribe the reluctant ones into doing the optimal fangirl-distracting acts while maintaining the T rating, make sure stun weapons were properly distributed, do her fair share of red-faced yelling at people. The thought of delegating responsibility never even occurred to her. Had it been suggested to her, she would have enquired confusedly as to how that worked at all, and would have left to do something in the middle of the explanation.

She walked briskly for a few seconds, got tired of it and stole a hovercar. The big-headed kid could complain all he wanted, it was hers now. She listened to the satisfying whir of its engines as it rose. Given an aerial view of the endless winding fissure in the ground, fictional physics could be best appreciated. The trench would bulge in places where people congregated; it would miraculously teleport people walking along its length to near their destination; it would be as spacious or narrow as the story demanded at the moment. Magnificent.

She peered down at where her forces were gathering. She'd assigned a few command posts to those she'd particularly trusted. After all, she'd practically been raised by the fictional. Back when Marie was on full-time duty and Nikki was too young to be brought along, having achieved master rank in only a few forms of combat, she'd been left in the Canon Retreat Chamber. Her hair was usually pink then, she remembered. She was technically human, but as a caretaker, the canons minded her not at all. Nikki didn't think she was ever really innocent—she and Jenna had the same mother, for one thing—but those were…good times, you could even say.

The canons were her real family. The talking dinosaurs went to her ballet recitals. The skeletal wizards cheered her on when she was flooring full-grown men at her karate tournaments. The rock monsters told her bedtime stories, usually ones straight from their histories. Family.

And if there was anything she'd learned consistently and constantly throughout her childhood, it was that nothing, nothing in any known or unknown universe, not even the sort of thing you literally were unable to imagine, was impossible.

Which was why every passing hour convinced her more and more that Marie really did know how to bring down the Fourth Wall.

…but how?

She flew along for a few minutes, thinking, before giving up. This was not due to a lack of bloody-minded obstinacy on Nikki's part, but merely her knowledge of how her world worked. She was the hero—or, well, if she was going to get really technical, Aline was the hero, and she was a Wise Old Mentor variant—and her mother was the villain, and, as such, the villain's plan would only be thwarted at the last moment. Contemplating its true form before the climax was well underway—and Nikki was certain that it wasn't upon them yet, it was narratively premature—was thoroughly pointless. She would just have to trust.

Unless, she thought, that Marie was the hero, and her army of disenfranchised, oppressed peoples were really the heroic army, and Nikki had been the villain all along, with Aline as her bumbling innocent sidekick bound to betray her at the last moment to assure the hero's victory…

Nikki quickly put such dreadful thoughts away.

0000

Aline spent a long time sitting there and dumbly staring at the little black box. The red button with its friendly letters was so inviting. Press me! it called in a high-pitched voice, Press me and all your troubles will be gone!

And no doubt they would be. Last time she'd pressed a Deus ex Machina, she'd found herself miraculously back at her desk, face-down in a puddle of drool, the evidence of all she'd done nothing but uncomfortable memories. Even now her hand tentatively began to reach out to it, only to be snatched back with a new wave of doubt.

Cosmic duty warred with cautionary concerns, which struggled with the promise of interesting things, which argued with the fact that Deus ex Machinas were not your most predictable objects, which had a nasty spat with danger of being killed or worse, which was trumped by the boredom that awaited at home, and was shouted down by long-suffering haggard voice of Common Sense.

Aline did the sensible thing and put it in her pocket. It proceeded to shrink down into near-nothing and escape anybody's notice until the time it was needed most.

She was still not far from the Hanging Cliffs. She could still hear the wind and wails that came from beyond them, but it was faint, and they were, after all, a reference point. The choice was right or left.

Right was a short walk back to the base.

Left was likely death.

Aline didn't know which was which, and so, guessed.

Technically, it was still Tuesday. Naturally, she went left.