"Oh god. You didn't tell me it was going to be like this."
           The Manager of the Subreality Cafe ran a shaking hand over his/her mouth and sank into the nearest chair, slightly pale. His/her other hand clutched a sheet of paper covered with neatly printed notes and and lists, many of which were highlighted in yellow and cross-referenced in red. The margins were filled with random doodles of eyeballs and unfinished torsos, indicating that whoever had created the form had spent some time hemming and hawing over its contents. "No disrespect meant, boss lady, but...you're completely insane."
           "I think I'll take that as a compliment." Kielle was leaning on the bar picking thoughtfully at the sushi section of the freshly laid-out buffet, waiting for the first guests to arrive. She was dressed to the nines (meaning that the black pants were fresh-washed and the comic-book character on her black tee-shirt was completely G-rated), and she was fidgeting nervously at the idea of writing herself into the Subreality Cafe. It wasn't something she relished doing, something she hadn't done since Jesse Willey had required a good firm scolding. However, she really had no choice. She'd started this particular mess, and she was honorbound to see it through. "It was either that or do it all myself..."
           Indignant, the Manager brandished the list at her. "You didn't warn me! You didn't tell me who was coming--"
           "Everyone is coming. Even the Writers. I told you that two weeks ago."
           "I know that. I mean...well, you didn't tell me who the presenters were going to be. I'm going to have a bloody riot on my hands."
           "Relax. They'll behave. I've also invited the Brute Squad, remember."
           The Manager suddenly went very still. "Bones AND Laersyn?"
           "Uh huh. And Haesslich. In draconic form," Kielle replied, ticking off fingers as she recounted the names. "Not to mention Luci Morningstar, Trough, Misfire, Hannah Connover, the 'Field-Trip' version of Chamber, Alexa's Sabretooth, Hawk, maybe even RudeJohn--" The Manager stood up abruptly and headed behind the bar with a grim expression. "--hey, where are you going?"
           "I," he/she replied with great dignity, "am hiding the knives."

           One hour later the place was half full and more were arriving every minute. For the first time in the Manager's memory (unless you counted the near-hallucinatory midnight meetings of that lot from the GenX Archive), Unfinished characters chatted amicably with Uncreated characters and fictives rubbed elbows peacefully with Writers, except for some kind of scuffle out back where a particular grudge-bearing version of the X-Men had cornered Jason Cornwell. The Manager wasn't concerned; Cornwell could look after himself. That, and the fact that the above-mentioned GenX Archive lot had just taken it upon themselves to rescue him and had charged out thata way.
           The Manager groaned and rubbed his/her temples to massage away the impending headache. Writers. THAT he could do without. The fictives were bad enough--
           Something tapped impatiently at his/her elbow. The Manager looked down to find him/herself staring at an honest-to-goodness green-eyed skunk. It was sitting primly on the bar, clicking the nails of one forefoot against the polished wood as it eyed him/her with a distinctly exasperated expression. The fur on its fluffy chest was dripping wet.
           The Manager restrained the urge to roll his/her eyes. "Not again."
           The skunk heaved a heavy sigh and nodded.
           "Tomato juice or hot water, ma'am? Ah, never mind, the latter of course. And who'll be bleeding copiously for pulling the old 'glass-of-cold-water-spilled-accidentally-into-the-cleavage' joke this time?"
           The skunk, formerly Rogue of the X-Men and now the rather irritable (who could blame her?) victim of a Ranma 1/2 crossover, glared meaningfully towards the front door. The Manager tracked her gaze across just in time to catch a glimpse of Perkolator beating a swift retreat. An exceedingly swift retreat.
           "Ohhhh. I see." Repressing a grin, the Manager went to fetch a kettle.

           "No, really, I AM Laersyn," the tall, thin, blond, and entirely un-Laersyn-like young man insisted.
           Mary Sue (who was serving on-duty that night as an extremely effective Deputy Bouncer) eyed the astoundingly unimpressive young man and shook her head. As nice as he may have looked in a black tuxedo and with his long hair slicked back, he was not in any way to be confused with the master of darkness. "Right, buddy. This is an invite-only gig."
           The young man sighed heavily. "I knew this wasn't going to work," he muttered unhappily. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out...well, Mary Sue had never seen DARKNESS come out like taffy, but there it was. Green eyes glared frostily at her as the young man put first one leg and then another into the darkness, stretching it over his legs. It molded and formed around him like a cocoon of nothinginess. Up over his shoulders, covering the rail-thin body in fluttering shadows. The cowl came up and the green eyes burned red.
           "There, now, happy?"
           Mary Sue, quite unaffected by much of anything any more with all she had seen, merely shook her head. "Sorry, now you're just a skinny guy in a Laersyn-suit."
           The red eyes burned like coal from Satan's pot-bellied stove. A chainsaw appeared from nowhere and buzzed dramatically.
           "Oh, sorry, Laersyn, didn't recognize you," Mary Sue told him nervously. "Head on in. I think the Scribe's looking for you..."

           "I am not sulking."
           "You are too."
           "I'm NOT sulking! I," Falstaff informed his tormentor with the utmost aplomb, "am writing."
           Tapestry leaned over his shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of his laptop's display. He snapped it shut, but not before she'd gotten an eyeful of the blissfully blank screen. "You are not. Look, we all know what the Arleccino Timeline means to you, and it's not your fault that no one ever seems to remember it when a vote come up..."
           "Oh thanks, just rub it in why don't you," Falstaff grumbled into his beard.
           "What?"
           He sighed, shutting off his laptop and standing up. "Nothing, nothing. Look, shouldn't you be out front with everyone else?"
           "Nuh-uh. I'm helping Kielle."
           "Suuuure, right. Last I heard, Kielle was out back prying apart Hellions Pizza and some hacked-up version of Iceman. Why don't you be REALLY helpful by going out front and telling the Manager to send the business end of a firehose back here?"
           Tapestry batted her eyelashes cutely at him. "Sorry, but you're not getting rid of me that easily. I'm staying back here with you guys. You need all the help you can get." She gestured expansively around the dim, crowded backstage area which had not existed until it was needed for this particular story. The place was barely constrained chaos incarnate as a mixed bag of fictives and the occasional Writer jostled shoulder to shoulder, rehearsing lines, gossiping about the results, or (in at least one case) glaring hostily at another character. Celendra dashed past with a pair of fluffy socks clutched in one hand, jumping over a contented pile of cats and almost colliding with a very out-of-place-looking Tooth Fairy-- Tooth Fairy? Falstaff shook his head and elected to NOT ask.
           "You're hiding from Glenn and Ahlric, aren't you," he said instead to Tapestry.
           At the mention of her willful characters the younger Writer stiffened and spluttered in outrage. "What? I'm not---I never--"
           Falstaff chuckled. "Thought so." Something crashed in the background. "Excuse me, I think I'd better go deal with that." Adroitly, he ended the conversation by jamming his laptop under his arm and slipping off into the small throng.
           "Hiding from my own fictives, indeed. I still say he was sulking," Tapestry muttered under her breath.
           His voice drifted back through the crowd: "I WAS NOT! AND YOU STILL OWE ME AN A.T. STORY!"

           Half an hour after that, the lights dimmed and the crowded Cafe quieted down faster than anyone could have thought possible before actually seeing the miracle take place. There was some pushing and whispering behind the hastily-hung curtains across the back of the small stage (usually reserved for kareoke competitions and the occasional rousing game of Pin The Tail On The Catseye). Then Kielle emerged, looking rather as if she'd been pushed. She paused to straighten both her shirt and her ruffled dignity; then, having no other choice, she stepped up behind the battered podium, cleared her throat, and spoke.
           "Ladies and gentlemen and creatures of all species and genres, welcome to the 1998 CBFFAs -- the First Annual Comic-Book Fan-Fiction Awards. Or, as you seem to like calling this little guy--" Kielle brandished an amorphous golden statuette "--the Creative License." The crowd roared appreciatively at that. Kielle smiled, paused to adjust her glasses, and went on. "As you may or may not know, for the last month or so I've been running a vote on CFAN, though I do have to give credit for the idea and the impetus to Claymore--" she shaded her eyes and looked out over the crowd, squinting "--has anyone seen Claymore?"
           "The X-Mentals have him treed about a mile up the road," someone shouted from the back of the room.
           "Ah. Well, I'll thank him next time I see him. As I was saying, then: what you're about to--"
           "Suffer t'rough!" another wag, this one distinctly Cajun, called from the shadows off to her left.
           Kielle suppressed a laugh as she narrowed her eyes sternly in that direction. "Uh HUH. I know where you live, Branson. Behave yourself. Ahem. What you're about to SEE, as I was going to say before Gumbo #352 interrupted me, is the result of a Readers' Choice poll consisting of about 75 volunteer voters. I had nothing to do with the results, except for my own vote of course--"
           "Where she only voted for me & Laersyn's stories over and over and over again!" a distinctly Tapestry-ish voice piped up from behind the curtain.
a           "Shush! I did NOT!" Kielle hissed indignantly over her shoulder as the crowd rippled with giggles and knowing nudges. "AHEM! Look, do you lot want an awards ceremony or not...? Yes? Okay then! I get the hint, I'll clear the stage. We've got a great line-up of guests tonight, as handled by some top-notch Writers, so enjoy the show and please don't break ALL of the furniture!"

           The Manager watched from under skeptical raised eyebrows as the audience enthusiastically cheered and whistled and stomped their enthusiasm. Kielle had already ducked backstage to help her fellow MC Falstaff play damage-control for the rest of the show. They were a formidable team, but up against this crowd...
           The Manager exchanged a meaningful glance with Deputy Bouncer Mary Sue. In unison, they both heaved a weighty sigh. It was going to be a long night.

TO BE CONTINUED...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CREDITS:

Ye Olde Subreality Cafe was kinda my idea (really!), and this round robin was definitely my brainchild. Yes, I'm a masochist. Please shoot me. ;) All vote results in the following installments were also collected and tabulated by your truly, though how the other writers wish to present them is completely up to them...

The Manager was created by Falstaff
Kielle belongs to me too -- well, she IS me!
The term "Brute Squad" was cheerfully lifted from The Princess Bride, ie.:
           "I've joined the Brute Squad."
           "You ARE the Brute Squad."
Bones, Laersyn, Haesslich, Hawk, the GenX lot (you know who you are), Jason Cornwell (the only person in this line-up with a real name! Wow!), Hellions Pizza (I just looove that name), Falstaff, Tapestry, Celendra, and Claymore all belong to themselves too. No, wait, I take that back: Laersyn and Celendra belong to me.
Luci Morningstar belongs to Lynx
Trough belongs to Suzene Campos
Misfire is mine, mine, MINE!
Hannah Connover belongs to (or at least was well used by) Lori McDonald
"The 'Field-Trip' version of Chamber" is Lisa "bum" McKee's baby
Alexa & her version of Sabretooth belong to Dawn L.Bobby
The skunk-Rogue belongs to Jaelle & Orla -- Ranma 1/2 belongs to Rumiko Takahashi
Perkolater belongs to David J. Warner
The Arleccino Timeline is Falstaff's, and yes, he IS sulking (grin and duck)
The "pile of cats" is a combination of kitty-types belonging to Dyce, Denise Keppel, Martha McMahon, and Jacque Koh
Glenn & Ahlric do belong to Tapestry, and man are they ticked off right now...
The X-Mentals belong to Claymore, who's currently working on a sequel! Woo!
Remy Le-- er, Remy Gordon Branson is technically Marvel's, but he got a makeover from Courtney
Mary Sue belongs to us all, but was recently refined and redeemed by Susan Crites
Sabretooth, Rogue, Iceman, and Catseye are Marvel's -- not like they know what to DO with them, mind you...

On with the show! Next!

           "Ye gods...it's chaos out there." Min dropped the edge of the curtain and eased back into the crowded backstage area. Tap gave a weary wave from her chair, fending off an irate Manchild with the other hand. Min dropped into the seat next to her.
           "Pretty crazy."
           "What was the Scribe expecting? I mean, this many writers and fics in one area? We're likely to have a creative explosion that could take out the bar."
           "She has her own reasons, which I'm sure make perfect sense to her," Tap responded just as Kielle stumbled in from the stage, mussed and confused from her close proximity to so many characters.
           "If I see one more Remy, I'm going to scream."
           "Relax Kielle, have some water." Min passed the glass over to Kielle, who accepted it with a nod.
           "At least we can rest during the opening number," Kielle muttered.
           "Opening number?" Tap and Min said in unison.
           "Yes, the big musical thing."
           "Um, when did this come up?" Min asked Kielle.
           Falstaff appeared over her shoulder, looking worried. "What's this about a music number?"
           "Look, didn't anyone tell you?" Kielle looked from one blank face to another, an icy feeling growing in the pit of her stomach.
           "Who's in charge of this?"
           "Dex said he'd...What?" Kielle said to the trio of suddenly smirking faces.
           "You put Dex on this?" Min giggled.
           "Yes. He's a good writer. What's the problem?"
           "Three things, in actuality." Phil called out from behind Kielle, leading Emma Frost over.
           "And those would be?" Ice was forming on the edge of Kielle's words.
           "Self Insertion. Erotic Fics. Open Bar." A bemused White Queen ticked off on her fingers. Kielle sat stunned for a minute, the impact of the connection settling in her mind. A low, primal sound began to build in her throat, emanating outward in waves of anger and wrath. Several fics went for the windows at the sound. The more animal-like fics crouched, their fur on end and every instinct screaming flight. Even the writers backed away from the fuming Kielle, stunned by the reddish aura which now surrounded her. Even Laersyn looked askance.
           "Laersyn, you're with me. Falstaff, fill time. I'll get Dex," Kielle said, with a tone that suggested thumbscrews and hot oil for the recipient.

           "Doesn't matter. Gots a...wossomes."
           "Wha?"
           "A...bastard thing. You know." Logan tried to point at his partner, finally settling for pointing in the vague direction.
           "Cheese wheel? Thumb tacks? Silly string?" a voice which slurred nearly beyond recognition answered puzzled.
           "Healing factor! Can't get drunk." Logan proudly announced, straightening up and falling backwards off his chair with a crash.
           "Sorry, ol' son. I was born and raised in Canada. Don't get drunk." Dex's state made his words highly suspect, but occupants of the table were beyond the ability to recognize the error in his argument. Cable lay face down and Deadpool had started stacking glasses with the exaggerated care of the very drunk. Dex leaned back unsteadily and grinned at the table of women behind him. A young Scots girl he had been chatting with earlier smiled back and gave him a little wave. This was going to be a good night...
           "DEX!"
           ...If he lived through it.
           "Huh?"
Kielle stood fuming behind him, Laersyn hovering over one shoulder. "What are you doing?"
           "Getting another drink?" Dex said without much hope. Kielle's thunderous expression negated any possibility of easy escape.
           "Dex, you promised me an opening number. No problem, Kielle, you said. Anytime you need it, Kielle, you promised. Where is it?" Kielle hissed at him.
           "Uh, number?" Dex blinked, confused.
           "Look, Dex. I don't think of myself as an unreasonable person," Kielle said in a tight voice. " But if I don't have an opening number from you, I will personally give you to Laersyn for whatever he wants. Remember what happened to Cyclops?"
           "Wha...?"
           "Misfire?" Kielle waved over her creation. "Would you?"
           "Certainly," the fictive said with a giant smile. With a flick over her wrist, Misfire activated her mutant power, purging Dex' system violently of alcohol.
           "YEERGGHH!!!" Dex shook violently as he hit sobriety like a bus slamming into a brick wall. "Don't ever do that again! Man, I can feel my eyelids pulsing!"
           "Dex, the opening number?"
           "The opening... Have we started already?" Dex looked up in shock. Hundreds of voices answered him in unison.
           "YES!"
           "Geez, remind me never to mix beer and sake."
           "Dex, five minutes to get it started, or I will find a eunuch position for you."
           "Uh, I think you mean 'unique.'"
           "Believe what you want," Kielle snarled as she stalked away.
           "Eep!"

           "So, the nun says..oh, we're ready?" Falstaff turned from the mike as Kielle whispered into his ear. "Right. Ladies and gentlemen, and fics of all species. May I present...your writers." Falstaff swept off the stage with a bow, just beating the curtain opening to reveal the massed group of writers standing grouped around a piano. Abyss sat at the keys with a smile and a pair of enormous glasses on. Oh, and a pair of bunny slippers, but that probably isn't important. The red-hot opening notes burned out of the piano under his fingers as the writers launched into song.

           It's getting late, I haven't done my update, oh, tell me when my mail gets here.
           It's seven at night, and I'm ready to write, going to get some stories up out there.
           Dex is drinking and Tap is thinking about what to do with Dawn this year.
           Abyss' drunk t'boot, the Neon Nurse is cute, and Laersyn is the one they fear!

           It ain't nuthin' but aggravation, Falstaff just can never win!
           Saturday night's all right for writing, squeeze a little artwork in.
           Get a dental fix for ol' Haesslich, raid Darqstar's site all night.
           'Cause Saturday night's all right for writing, Kielle said it's time to write, to write, to write!
           Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh.

           Well, they're packed pretty tight in here tonight, Lori MacD on the left, Lady A on the right,
           Jelpy's wrote down a little of what I need, with Bum and Dyce, I got enough to read!
           A couple of the writers that I really like, like Patrick, Tangerine, and Min's Emma tyke.
           I'm a rapt observer of the "Civics Class," Desert Nomad, Mr. Newcomb and his "Man of Glass."

           It ain't nuthin' but aggravation, Ms. Marvel really pulled me in.
           Saturday night's all right for writing, T-Catt draws some mutant sin.
           Read 'bout Wisdom man from our dear Suzene, Bucktown and Team Zeta are all right!
           'Cause Saturday night's all right for writing, Mirage says it's time to write, to write, to write!
           Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh.

           It ain't nuthin' but aggravation, Phil keeps me up all night.
           Saturday night's all right for writing, keep Breanna's diaries right.
           Denise, Aleph, Melissa and Montgomary, Luba's got her characters right,
           ' Cause Saturday night's all right for writing, Hawk says it's time to write, to write, to write!
           Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh.

           "And now, on with the show!"

Credits

The Subreality Cafe belongs to Kielle, sterling lass that she is. She is also to blame for this whole mess. You know what to do.
Manchild and Bucktown are David J. Warner's
The young Scots girl is Mhairie and thus is Lady Amethyst's
Misfire is also Kielle's from 'No Way Up.'
Logan, Remy, Deadpool and Cable are all Marvel's, though used in too many fics to name here...
Team Zeta is Yukon 3D's
"Civics Class" is Jelpy's
"Man Of Glass" is actually "Through The Looking Glass Man" by Greg Newcomb
"Saturday Night's All Right For Writing" is a parody of Elton John's "Saturday Night's All Right For Fighting"
Victoria is Emma's tyke, and the creation of Min
Emma is mine! I'm hijacking her, damn it! But until I reach Cuba, Marvel has some say.
...And all of the writers mentioned belong ostensibly to themselves, though I hate to make any major assumptions. Me? I'm just on a time share here. Three months of the year, I'm Patty Walkes of Decatur, Alabama.          

           Kielle blinked in surprise, stopping her path through the bar. One corner had expanded out into what seemed to be an English pub. A mounted TV had both rugby and the video feed from the stage on it. A few fics played darts on the one side, mainly Gambits and Braddocks, which made for some remarkable shots. The one which took a ricochet off three pint glasses, a Colossus, through a teleportation disc and back into the triple twenty last Tuesday won the pot. It actually missed by a half inch or so, but was still considered a damn good shot nevertheless. Knowing and dreading actually what and who'd by inside the dark corners, Kielle went in.
           "Who ordered the Guinness?" Everyone answered affirmative.
           "Geez, this is getting old," Beth/Zero muttered, pouring another pint. Callahan patted her hand kindly, his red Irish face smiling warmly even as Moira rushed by, wielding a fire extinguisher on a hapless Pete Wisdom.
           "You're doing fine. This crowd isn't that bad."
           "You haven't met Abyss yet."
           "Point taken." They both looked over at the bunny slipper which was half down a pint.
           "The thing that scares me most is that he paid for it, too," Callahan remarked absentmindedly.
           "Um, what is this?" Kielle stood at the bar, looking very puzzled.
           "Callahan's. Well, sort of a mix of Callahan's, the Druid's Head and the Wolf Head. Pint?" the cheerful girl announced.
           "Who are you?"
           "Zero/Beth."
           "Zero/Beth?"
           "It's kind of vague right now. I work at the coffee shop."
           "Right." Lord, another bloody Round Robiner, Kielle thought. "Look, have you seen Falstaff? He's due to announce the next category."
           "Try the booths along the wall. A bunch of Writers ducked in earlier."
           "Thanks." Kielle checked down the row, finding her co-presenter indeed closeted away at the very end. Phil, Dex and Luba all gave her a cheery wave and invited her in.
           "Staff, we've got the next award to do."
           "Already? Wow, I didn't think it was that soon."
           "Ad-lib something." Dex said.
           "Ad-lib an award?" Kielle responded incredulously.
           "Sure. Do that 'Tapestry and Dawn in mime' bit," Phil joined in. The table erupted into laughter.
           "Come on, Falstaff. These are the big awards."
           "Right. I'll be back." The others raised their glasses to the departing writers. Phil put down his pint o' scrumpy and waved over Bum as she threaded through the crowd.
           "What now?" Luba tipped back her pint.
           "I saw an impromptu football match being set up in the parking lot. A bunch of Luba's Excalibur lot verses DV8 and some ringers from the Common People set," Bum said, deftly snatching Dex' drink from his hand and taking a long pull.
           "Ooh, bloody viscera. Sounds good." Phil chuckled as they ducked out the watch the carnage.

           "We're running late," Renee said, checking her watch. Actually, she was checking someone else's watch which happened to be in her possession at the moment, but that was a minor detail.
           "It's the Scribe. Like anything starts without her," Summer responded, contentedly munching on a handful of peanuts as they watched the crowd. The X-Women had finally arrived, clones in tow. Within moments the body count had tripled. Summer grabbed another handful of peanuts and ducked behind the curtain to see Falstaff and Kielle rushing up.
           "How far behind are we running?"
           "About three Gambit beatings and a dead Jean Grey."
           "Ah, not as far as I thought." The Subreality had a unique way of telling time known as Cliché Curve Plotting. With the amount of fan fiction that poured into the creative ether of their little silopsisic corner, it was possible to actually plot certain events along a curve of overused plot devices and characters like a probability curve. The smallest unit of time was the 'New Gen-X Student,' or approximately five minutes. Next came "Gambit and Rogue romances," followed by "Phoenix deaths," "defeats of major foes" and finally "actual characterization," the longest time period in fan fiction. There were theories on a new period new as Published Fan Fiction, though it was highly suspect and the researcher considered to be an unethical, drunken git.
           "K, shall we do this?" Falstaff was pulling envelopes from a box guarded by a feral Wolverine and two Sabretooths.
           "Right."

           "Right, bloody well listen, y'soddin' toerags!" Wisdom snarled into the microphone. Kielle made a mental note never to let him introduce anything again.
           "Thank you, Pete. Okay folks, we have one of the big ones here. The Fan Fiction Hall of Fame. As you may or may not know, there are two parts to this award. The first is to the most popular pieces of fan fiction. Works which have gained notoriety and praise through our community." Kielle's voice cut through the noise thanks to modifications to the sound system made by Taki.
           "And the second part is the writers which have blazed a path of fame in the world of fan fiction. Men and women and unknowns who have made impacts with their writing which stuns and amazes the mass of readers." Falstaff scowled slightly. "Not that making a bloody timeline seems to be good enough for that honour though."
           "'Staff."
           "Yeah?"
           "Shut up."
           "Yes ma'am."
           "So, without further ado, the nominees for the Fan Fiction Hall of Fame." The applause was deafening as the crowd hooted and hollered, calling out their favourites and craning to see the screen which descended to the floor.
           "This award is meant to recognize the famous pieces of work which represent the giants of Fan Fiction. These are our Hamlets, our Tale Of Two Cities, our Stranger In A Strange Lands. Pieces which have reached out and grabbed the hearts and minds and imaginations of the reader, drawing them into an unfamiliar world populated by loved characters." Falstaff gave the mic over to Kielle.
           "He is right. This is about the popular works which have touched some unique chord in a huge percentage of our community, and exist in fame or infamy large in our group consciousness."
           " A Friend in Need. Writer: Jennifer Sorowitz"

           "No!" Jubilee screamed. She turned to face Tessa. "You've hurt everyone that's ever meant anything to me," she said, walking closer. "But this is all pretend. This is all just in my mind. It's not real. And neither are you!" Balling her right hand into a fist, she struck Tessa square in the jaw. Tessa fell backward and onto the ground. "Take a hike, bitch!" she screamed, letting lose with her plasma powers.

           "A Month Of Terror. Writers: J.B. McDonald and Nony."

           "I was set up by tha' wuman!" Sean loudly proclaimed for his seat, Moira glaring fiercely at him.
           "Talk to your writers, and Falstaff, stop smirking."
           "Yes Kielle."
           "Where were we? Ah... Betrayal. Writer: Valerie Jones."

           "The Dawn Arc. Writer: Tapestry."
           "Gosh, I wonder if we can find a quote?"
           Kielle narrowed her eyes and glared at the heckler. Tap looked abashed and muttered an apology.

           "Devil's Due. Writer: Laersyn." The room went suddenly quiet, everyone edging away from the collection of mangled, dead fics which sat in Laersyn's corner.

           The mass of horrified fics turned away from the screen. Laersyn had drifted on stage, humming to himself as the screen fast-forwarded through the carnage. Tangerine cradled a sobbing Angel, holding him protectively away from the floating black ball which had created the grisly record of the death of the X-Men. Kielle changed the screen quickly, shooing Laersyn and desperately trying to lighten the atmosphere.
           "Ah, next is The Experiment #713 Series. Writer: Lori McDonald."

           "Kid Dynamo. Writer: Connie Hirsch."

           "Neon Hearts. Writer: Susan Crites, the Neon Nurse."

           "Sometimes Even The Music Is Against You. Writer: Denise Keppel."

           The bar exploded into laughter. Emma sat glaring at the screen, ignoring the helpless Abyss and Dex, who were whooping and laughing at their table. Tears streaming down his cheeks, Dex looked up.
           "So what is it for, Emma?"
           "Dex, you'll never have the opportunity to find out in any case. Why don't you crawl back to your meager existence?"
           "So crawling has something to do with it?" Abyss noted. Both men fled as Emma launched herself at them.
           "Oh boy." Falstaff shook his head. "Through The Valley Of Shadows. Writer: Darqstar."

           "And, finally, X-MST3K. Writer: Kelly 'Kielle' Newcomb." Kielle grinned.
           "This thing is rigged!"
           "Shut up, Tap!"

           "Oh, I still get flashbacks." Kielle said, shuddering. "Falstaff, the envelope."
           "Um..."
           "Don't tell me..."
           "Here!" Falstaff pulled a bedraggled looking envelope from his vest pocket with a flourish.
           "The winners are..."
           "Kid Dynamo. Writer: Connie Hirsch."
           "Betrayal. Writer: Valerie Jones."
           "Sometimes Even The Music Is Against You. Writer: Denise Keppel."
           "And X. Writer: Andrew Vincent."
           "Wha...!?!?!"
           "Just kidding."

Disclaimer:
The Subreality Cafe is Kielle's, yadda yadda yadda...          
Beth/Zero is from the GenX Round Robin 'Subreality Coffee'
Callahan is from Spider Robinson's 'Callahan's Crosstime Saloon."
The Druid's Head is Ian Foster's
The Wolf's Head is Warren Ellis' from Gen13 Bootleg.
Renee LeBeau is from Valarie Jones' 'Betrayal'
Summer Ison is Me's 'Shades of Grey'
Cliche Curve Plotting is Dex's
Are of the writers here as themselves, but, since no writer is a island, but rather *whap* Donne mode off, sorry!
All recognizable characters from Marvel, DC and Image are infact, their own.
All nominee sections are taken from the nominated story and attributed to the listed writer.
And me? I'm just a little butterfly who believes that I'm a Chinese Philosopher dreaming that I'm a technicolour cheese wedge or something...

           Everyone waited for a moment to see who would be the next presenter. Nothing happened.
           They waited for another minute. Eventually, there was a muffled clatter from backstage.
           "Oh, bother." A small yellow bear in a red shirt hopped onto the stage, trying to get his foot out of a bucket. "Hello, everybody."
           "H-Hi," stammered a small pig in a stripy vest, peeking out from behind him.
           There was a moment of stunned silence, then laughter and a round of applause, as the two, having gotten rid of the bucket, ambled up to the podium.
           "Oh my, how very kind," Pooh said, climbing up on a hastily proffered chair. He pulled Piglet up behind him. "Now, what were we going to do, again?"
           "Present the awards, remember?" Piglet prompted. He held out a sheet of paper.
           "Oh, of course. Thank you, Piglet." Pooh cleared his throat. "Here are the knobbyknees for the 'Writer Hall of Fame.'"
           "That's 'nominees,' you addlepated piece of fluff!" hissed a large rabbit, poking its head around the curtain.
           "Whatever you say, Rabbit. They are -- Abyss, Lisa 'bum' McKee, Darqstar, David J. Warner, Denise Keppel, JL 'Jelpy' Puckett, Kelly 'Kielle' Newcomb, Lori McDonald, Luba Kmetyk, the writer known as 'Me,' Perridox Smith, Susan Crites, Tapestry, and Valerie Jones." Pooh beamed around at the crowd. "Isn't that wonderful?" Everyone clapped.
           "You read that very well, Pooh," Piglet congratulated him.
           "Thank you, Piglet. I got Rabbit to help me practice it," Pooh said humbly. They stood in silence for a moment.
           "Now you open the envelope and tell them who won, remember?" hissed the voice from off stage.
           "Oh yes, how forgetful of me." Pooh chuckled. "Where is the envelope, please?" A tiny smoky blue kitten bounced up to them, the envelope tied with a red ribbon around his neck. He purred hopefully.
           "What a nice kitty," Piglet said. He climbed down, carefully untied the ribbon, and released the envelope. The kitten leaped off the stage and was passed back to the Gencats table, where he curled up on a convenient shoulder to watch. Piglet climbed back up and offered the envelope to Pooh.
           "Oh no, Piglet, it's your turn to read one," Pooh insisted. Piglet blushed, and shook his head. "You can do it, Piglet, you just have to be brave." They both stared at the envelope for a minute.
           "Oh d-d-dear."
           "It seems we have a slight problem," Pooh agreed. "Paws aren't much good for opening envelopes, I'm afraid. Would anyone--"
           Another kitten, almost identical to the first, bounced over to the two presenters. This one had a small letter-opener tied around his neck with a yellow ribbon. "Oh my. They do think of everything, don't they?" Pooh sighed in admiration. Piglet retrieved the letter opener, and opened the envelope, as the kitten was handed back to his friends.
           "A-ahem." Piglet cleared his throat. "Third place goes to--"
           "A little louder, Piglet." Pooh encouraged.
           "A-all right, Pooh." He stuttered. "Th-third place g-goes to D-Darqstar." Darqstar came up to receive her award, as everyone clapped.
           "Here you are," Pooh smiled, handing it to her. "Congratulations."
           "Thank you, Pooh." She shook the bear's fuzzy paw.
           "S-s-second place goes t-to L-Lori McDonald," Piglet squeaked. Lori joined Darqstar, to another round of applause, next to the diminutive presenters.
           "How nice." Pooh beamed, carefully handing her an award. "Congratulations to you, too."
           "Well, thank you!" Lori smiled back.
           "And t-the first place goes to--" a drum rolled from somewhere offstage "--Kelly "Kielle" Newcomb." Piglet sighed in relief. Kielle bounded happily up onto the stage, to thunderous applause.
           "H-here," Piglet stammered, after Pooh prodded him forward. He lifted the award, which was almost as big as he was, and offered it to Kielle. "C-c-congratulations, M-miss Kielle."
           "Thank you very much, Piglet." Kielle shook hands with them both.
           "Oh, y-you're welcome. It w-was a p-pleasure," Piglet stammered, blushing.
           "Yes, it was." Pooh agreed. He looked out at the audience. "Perhaps you could manage one more round of applause for our prizewinners?" he suggested.
           The foundations shook as fics, writers and staff saluted the winners as they left the stage. Pooh and Piglet climbed off their chair, and waved to everyone. "Goodbye, now. Thank you for having us," Pooh said politely as they trotted off the stage.

Laersyn would like to apologize in advance to Disney for his ripping off of their music/concepts, and he would at the same time like to thank them for writing songs so easy to alter.

           Falstaff assumed the podium and glanced out over the audience, his face an unusually serene mask of sober calm and impeccable maturity. He did not so much as flinch when he saw Lynxie magicing the punch bowl.
           "The first award to present tonight, is for the most improved writer." He rolled his eyes dramatically. "And by Kielle, you can all use some improvement. To present the award we have..." The esteemed co-MC paused, staring at the tele-prompter. "That can't be right," he muttered, glancing backstage. "Kielle, who prepped the tele-prompter?"
           "I did. Why?"
           Falstaff looked back to see if his cue had miraculously changed. With all the powers and magic rippling through this room, it was quite possible that someone was playing a prank. A very sick, very demented and traumatically unfunny prank, albeit, but it was still preferable to... Falstaff sighed heavily. The name was still there.
           "Are you sure you got the names right, Kielle?" Falstaff knew that her Ladyship was infallible, and that Celendra and Silvanis were likely now sharpening their knives to silence his sacrilege once and for all, but despair had forced his hand.
           "Of course I am," the saintly deity of all CFAN called back.
           Falstaff's back stiffened. In fact, everything was stiffening from his toes to his nose hairs. This was not a good sign for the rest of the night. "To present our Award...for MOST improved writer..." Falstaff swallowed back bile. "It is my--" he made a gurgling sound around the word "pleasure" "--to announce...the one...the only..." It took all of his remaining will power to spit out the name.
           "Andrew Vincent."
           The crowd burst out laughing at the riotous joke. Kielle, however, knew something had gone suddenly, terribly amiss. In fact, she had been expecting things to go awry. But this... "WHAT?"
           Falstaff shuddered as he looked over and saw Shadow approaching the stage. The somewhat stout co-MC clenched his hands and chewed uneasily on his mustache. Somewhere, he was certain, it was written that the day that Andrew Vincent stepped foot in the SC, the end of everything was near.
           Unbelievable arrogance manifested in a ridiculous aura of power surrounded the figure approaching the dais. The audience was no longer laughing. Someone was whimpering softly. Mary Sue was vomiting copiously into a potted fern. Kielle was backstage looking for Laersyn's chainsaw.
           "Thank you, Falstaff, you can go," Andrew said in a voice that struggled to hide a bad nasal whine.
           The red-bearded man shivered at the thought of leaving his podium to this...this...this...thing...but Andrew WAS the presenter... Kielle preserve us he thought weakly and retreated.
           "And thank you all for reading my stories," Andrew told the audience politely. "I didn't think they were that good until everybody read them. And especially thanks Kielle, for helping getting me noticed."
           "Breathe," Falstaff murmured to Kielle backstage. "It'll be over soon."
           "How could Laersyn do this to me?" she whimpered.
           "The award for most improved writer is an impotent one--"
           "Important!" Kielle screamed. "Learn to spell!"
           "Because it encourages us writers to excel in this field we do," Andrew finished, obliviously. "The nominees for Most Improved Writer are: Denise Keppel, Lisa 'bum' McKee..." Andrew paused, apparently stunned by what he saw on the teleprompter. Then he straightened up with a huge grin. "Well, it seems you guys really are with it." He cleared his throat. "The next nominee is me. I'm so touched." He shook his head. "Oh, and there's Paul Tran, Seraph, Suzene Campos and Tapestry."
           There were more and less articulate strangled noises from the scribe.
           "And the winner is..." He tore open the envelope like a kid with a Christmas present, sending a shower of confetti all over the stage. "Me!" he shouted in delight. He picked up the Creative License and held it up triumphantly. "I am so honored. I knew if I worked really hard on my stories they would get appreciation."
           "ANDREW, YOU IDIOT, 'ME' IS THE NAME OF A WRITER!!!!!!!"
           Kielle's patience had, apparently, been exhausted.
           The chagrined fanboy looked around, his face clouding over in fury. "No! I won't let you take it! It's mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!" he whined.
           In a burst of shadows, he was gone.
           The audience breathed a sigh of relief. Kielle and Falstaff came on stage, looking around furiously. "Laersyn, when I get my hands on you..." the Scribe muttered. She looked around for Me. "I'm sorry, we'll get you another award..."
           "No!" Falstaff snapped with sudden vehemence. "We can't let him keep getting away with this sort of thing."
           "Just let it go, 'staff," Kielle said tiredly.
           Falstaff leaped atop a table, which was quite a feat, considering. The audience looked up at him in uncertainty. "Andrew Vincent is a beast!" Falstaff roared loudly. "He'll make off with your characters!" The crowd gasped at the very notion. "He'll come after them in the night! We're not safe until his head is mounted on the wall of this bar!"

"Nothing's safe until he's dead," Haesslich chimed in.
"He'll start writing us at night!" Paul Tran warned.
"Set to sacrifice our fictives to his monstrous appetite!" Cassandra quavered.
"He'll wreak havoc on all ficdom if we let him wander free," Phil Foster told them.

"So it's time to take some action boys, it's time to follow me!" Falstaff sang out in full voice.

"Through the mist through the streets,
through the lamplights and the shadows
it's a fanfic but it's one mind-bending ride.
Say a prayer and we're there
at the doorstep of a mansion
and there's something truly terrible inside

He's a beast, he's got tales, rather dull ones
massive flaws in his stories never cease
Hear him drone, see us groan but we're not coming home til he's dead
Good and dead! Kill the beast!"

"I won't let you do this," Kielle piped in suddenly. Everyone stared at her in astonished perplexity. She brandished Laersyn's chainsaw. "Without me!"

"Grab a light, mount your bikes!" the crowd sang in chorus, climbing onto a conveniently appeared host of Harleys.

"Screw your courage to the sticking place!" Falstaff shouted, starting his engine with a roar.

"We're counting on Falstaff to lead the way!" the Writers bellowed.

"Through the mist through the streets, where within a haunted mansion something lurking that you don't see every day!" Tapestry, Cassandra, and Suzene Campos chimed in.
          
"It's a beast! Ego tall as mountain
we won't rest till he's good and deceased
Thunder on! Tallyho! Grab your bricks and your bows
Praise Kielle and here we go!

We don't like what he writes, characters and plots and powers
and his stories are predictable at least
Bring your rope to unwind
save your fictives from his kind
We'll save our ficdom and our minds
We'll kill the beast!

"You'll see characters you thought you knew," Falstaff warned them. "Show no mercy. You'll be doing them a favor. Hurry, we don't have much time, but remember the beast is mine!"

"Minds ablaze, tempers high
We go marching into battle
Unafraid of Andrew Vincent in the least

"It's been due for so long
here come we're fifty strong
and fifty writers can't be wrong!
Let's kill the beast
Kill the beast!
Kill the beast!
Kill the beast!"          

           The song ended as they roared onto the campus of the much abused and horribly-inaccurately-written X-Mansion. With a heroic flourish, Falstaff smashed through the front door with his Harley, skidding to a halt inside.
           The house was quiet and silent inside. The army of indignant writers looked around uneasily, feeling ill to see the facade that their beloved mansion had been turned into.
           "I haven't seen a violation this bad since Ben Ra--" Tapestry began, but Lynxie cut her off.
           "Don't mention HIM," she hissed to the teenage Missourite. "He can come for your soul if you do."
           Tapestry shrugged. "What do we call HIM then?"
           "The Destroyer of Continuity," Haesslich hissed.
           "I'll check upstairs..." Falstaff informed them. "You look around down here."

Meanwhile, upstairs...

           The Shadow stared into the flames in the fireplace, sensing the approach of his enemies, but blithely ignoring it. He was Andrew Vincent. An X-Man at 14. Wanted by the government. Terror of bullies everywhere.
           Yet he was troubled.
           In his mind's eye, he saw the Scribe. Ruthless, yes. Razor-witted, yes. Ego-stomping, spell-checking, Andrew-Vincent-hating, yes. But he knew he could win her over. With all of his power though, he just didn't know why he wanted to. Looking into the fire, he could almost see her there, haughty, confident, wise and oh-so-alluring.

"Oh holy Scribe Kielle," he sang out.
"You know I am a writing man
of my stories I am justly proud

"Oh holy Saint Kielle
You know I'm so much
cooler than
the common, older less pretentious crowd

Then tell me, oh Kielle
Why I see you laughing there?
Why your Mistie jokes still scorch my soul

I feel them, I hear them
like barbs caught in my
pasty flesh
are tearing at my
ego-centric role

My writing
bad writing
The writing from my brain
This burning
Desire
that's driving you insane

It's not my fault!
I'm not to blame
It is the holy scribe
Kielle who gave me fame
It's not my fault!
If in Her plan
She made bad writers so much
greater than I am!

Protect me, oh Kielle
don't let these writers have their way
don't let their fires sear my flesh and bone
destroy all the writers
and let me gloat while Falstaff and they
plead and beg for me to leave them alone

           "Andrew! Andrew!" Discharge screeched suddenly, breaking into his song.
           "What is it?"
           "Falstaff is on the way!"
           "It doesn't matter now. Let him come," Andrew murmured disconsolately.
           Discharge quivered and ducked out.

"My writing!
bad writing!
oh now Scribe it's your turn
choose me or, your writers
be mine or they will burn!

I'll have mercy on her
if she chooses me

But she will be mine, or she will SQUIRM!!!!"

           The last notes of the song were fading when he heard the clapping behind him. Andrew slowly turned to the bulky figure of Falstaff. "Very nice, but my Mob Song was better."
           Shadow bristled furiously. "You cannot challenge me! I am Shadow!"
           "Yeah, but you don't have the Shadow's nose," Falstaff quipped. "Just give me the Creative License and I'll forget I found you, okay?"
           "No! It's mine!" Andrew whined.
           Falstaff sighed, tipping back his bowler and rolling up his sleeves. "Oh fine, have it your way..."

           Downstairs things were eerily silent. The writers had fanned (no pun intended) out and searched most of the first floor. There was no sign, however, of Shadow, the award, or any of the grotesque fake-X-Men. Kielle was on the verge of following Falstaff, but she was having trouble getting the chainsaw started.
           That's when all heck broke loose.
           "Now!" someone screamed.
           The X-Men and the Uber-characters that were on Shadow's team suddenly appeared all around them. There were no signs of teleportation or translocation, though.
           "Hah! You fools! You forgot that you can't see two-dimensional characters when they're turned sideways!" the fake-Cyclops chortled.
           For a moment, the writers stared at the macabre simulacrums in silent horror. Then Kielle got the chainsaw working. "All right everyone, let's clean this up."
           A red-optic beam nearly fried Martha's cat. "He's got mutant powers!" someone cried
           "You idiots!" Haesslich roared. "We've all got mutant powers!"

           Much gratuitous violence later, the downstairs was quiet. From upstairs, though, the noise of climactic battle reverberated still. The writers dusted themselves off and turned to the stairs. It was time to deal with Mr. Vincent.
           Only at that moment he and his assailant came flying over the balustrade. They landed on the main floor with a titanic crash. Shadow was using every power at his disposal, but it was unable to counter the growing fury of Falstaff. Meaty fists slammed into the Fanboy, trying to force him to go down. Something about him, though, in this place, would not let him.
           "You can't beat me Falstaff!" Andrew crowed.
           "Maybe not," the infuriated writer snarled. "But I have something you don't?"
           "Oh? What?"
           "Friends."

           "Oh Andrew...?" Kielle whispered sweetly.
           Even more gratuitous violence later, the battle was still raging. There was no stopping the personification of arrogance that was Andrew Vincent, though. No amount of powers, chainsaw, bricks or anything could seem to bring him down.
           They had wearied him, but that was all. Andrew glared around at the writers, daring any of them to attack him again. They appeared to be as tired as he, though. "Ah hah! That'll teach you. Now I'll just finish you lot off..."
           "Not so fast," a new voice interjected.
           "Yeah, you haven't won yet, Mr. Vincent."
           Confused, Andrew turned to see who dared try and challenge him now. His eyes widened when he saw who they were. "You!"
           "Ayep."
           "You could have stopped with 'X,' but no, you had to write a sequel."
           "You...aren't going to hurt me... Are you?" The Shadow had gone very pale, which was most odd, considering.
           "Oh no, we have much, much better plans in mind," Tom Servo told him.
           "Ayep."
           The two 'bots from the SOL grabbed Andrew Vincent and stuffed him into a rocket they had ready nearby. "Wait! Wait!" Andrew screamed.
           "Did you hear anything, Crow?"
           "Nope."
           "My next story will be better!"
           "That's it, launch him," Crow growled.
           The rocket lurched and thrummed and then propelled itself through the roof of the mansion. Chuckling, the two 'bots sauntered out. "Man, it's going to be good to inflict these things on someone else," Crow muttered.
           "You have the 'Manos' tape handy?"
           "Ayep."

           "Remind me why we agreed to do this?" Emma snarled from the edge of the curtain.
           "Because, it is supposed to be a fun night, and it's good publicity for us."
           "Just because you're my writer doesn't mean you have control over me."
           "Actually, it does." Dex grinned and ducked back away from the curtain. "And remember to smile!"
           *sigh* " Only upon the announcement of your demise. Jubilation!" Emma snapped to her young co-speaker.
           "Yeah?" Jubilee said, deftly snagging another tray of snacks from a passing Wisdom. Apparently the group of them had lost a bet and were drafted as waiters for the night. One of the Kittys had made some comment about the fact that they didn't even need to change clothes for it. Most were sulking.
           "First, please refrain from spraying crab cakes on my outfit. Second, remember that you must be on your best behavior this evening. There is a room full of writers out there. Unpredictable, unrestrained and uncontrollable."
           "So?"
           "So I would like to avoid being shanghaied into some bizarre erotic story or paired with the cast of South Park," Emma stated.
           "Well, it might not be so bad..." Jubilee mused.
           "I saw one of you and Monet kissing quite passionately earlier."
           "Oh, gross, like with a capital O."
           "Oh, and that version of you and Logan look very happy..."
           "Ick, ick, ick!" Jubilee made gagging noises.
           "See what I mean?"
           "Gotcha, boss-lady."
           "Good. Then perhaps we can get through this evening intact."

           "I'm sure I had them here earlier!" Falstaff said has he searched his pockets. Curious onlookers where watching the improbably growing pile of stuff from his pockets with interest.
           "What's going on?" Elizabeth peeked over Kielle's shoulder.
           "Falstaff lost the tally for the best Female Character."
           "I did not lose it." Falstaff said gruffly.
           "Well...?"
           "I have merely misplaced it." Falstaff said, going red behind his beard.
           "Misplaced it," Kielle and Elizabeth echoed.
           "Yes." Falstaff dropped a pair of goggle glasses on to the pile and began on the other pocket.
           "Are you looking for something?" Nightcrawler asked from his perch on the ceiling.
           "Yes Kurt. Falstaff has lost--"
           "Misplaced!"
           "--the results of the best female character vote."
           "Would it perhaps be in a small blue envelope?" Kurt smiled.
           "Yes." Kielle nodded.
           "Then it would be on the table, where herr Falstaff placed it earlier. Under his bowler." Elizabeth picked up the hat and held up the envelope triumphantly.
           "See. I misplaced it," Falstaff said.
           Elizabeth shook her head and Kielle gave a chuckle before addressing Kurt again. "Thanks, fuzzy elf. Remind me to write you into something soon."
           "Danke, Kielle." Kurt gave a quirky upside-down bow.
           "I'll get this to Emma." Elizabeth rushed off with the letter as Kielle turned to discuss organization with Falstaff.

           *Ahem*
           The crowded masses of ficdom ignored the pointed cough. The mob had been embroiled in food fights, brawls, blood duels, writers' battles and even a spontaneous sing-along. Things were going downhill and accelerating rapidly. Emma looked hopelessly back it the back stage, trying to catch the attention of someone. Wren gave a jaunty wave to her as she came over.
           "Problems?"
           "No one is listening to me."
           "I could soup up the sound system," Wren offered, the nano-plates on his arms morphing into different shapes.
           "We need something with more...punch." Emma caught sight of one of the writers in the back and an evil grin spread across her face.
           "Jackpot."

           The main room had again erupted into chaos. A Cyclops was standing red-faced, trying to explain to dozens of himself about being attracted to Gambit was natural. Luba was shouting at three Storms who still refused to accept the reality of Kitty and Pete, and the poker game had grown to epic proportions. Suddenly, the atmosphere of the club changed. The lights dimmed dramatically, indirect illumination coming from the thousands of dripping red candles that had sprung up on the walls and wrought iron candelabra. Even the lights had gone a deep right, creating twisted and gnarled shadows dancing through out the room. The giant fireplace blazed, sparks exploding out of the mouth. A hush fell over the crowd, and a sense of dread pervaded the room. Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor flowed menacingly from the numerous speakers, and a single light snapped on to the stage. Into the light floated a black sphere of unknown composition, and two eyes glared out baleful from it's center. Silence reigned in the Cafe. This was Laersyn.
           "Kkkrkt!"
           And he had spoken! Stunned, the fics could do no more then than gaze helplessly at the stage, hoping that they would not be the next to attract his attention.
           "Ckkkrkt!"
           A sobbing Wolverine dove through the large window and hit running. Even the Bartender winced as Laersyn's gaze raked the bar. Everyone waited in dread apprehension. What would Laersyn do, and who would die from it?

           "Laersyn, you're incorrigible." Kielle muttered from her spot at the edge of the stage. She was glad he had decided to go out and restore order, since he was the only one that the fics truly feared. Someone came up behind her.
           "He's impossible, isn't he?" Kielle turned and said. Laersyn bobbed up and down in agreement. Kielle took a startled look from one Laersyn to the other.
           "How did...what is...who??" She sputtered. Laersyn, dispute the fact that he was merely an amorphous black blob with eyes, still remarkably managed to convey a puzzled shrug. The other Laersyn floated from the stage in the silence. The two came face to face with Kielle watching them both. As the curtain dropped behind her, the Laersyn from the stage suddenly shimmered like light on water, and disappeared. In his place stood Abyss, bunny slippers in hand.
           "Hey Kielle."
           "Abyss?"
           "Yup. Emma said that things were getting pretty nuts out there, so I had Wren rig me up an image inducer and calmed things down." Abyss explained.
           Kielle laughed and shook her head. "Good job."
           "Yup. I owe these two a bucket of sake from their help. See you later!" He waved as one of the slippers tried to gnaw off his arm in a good-natured way.

           "Now that I have your attention." Emma said, taking the podium of the stage. The lights had returned to normal, but several fics still shot hunted looks about themselves, just in case.
           "Geez, what a bunch a' weenie fics. Just cause of some writer," Jubilee said, finally being pushed on stage. A Jubilee from the crowd gave her a nasty look. She noticed the bandaged foot and the cushion the girl was gingerly sitting on and decided to hold her next comment.
           "As I was saying, we are here to present the award for Favorite New Female Character. This category is open only to those characters who are female, obviously, and have never made an appearance in any published comic. It is a tribute to both the strength of the writer and the character that they can stand out among the hordes of mainstream characters and even gain following as dedicated and avid as any published character," Emma said.
           "Yeah, an' it's cool that since most of the big writers are women, that believable and realistic characters get portrayed. Not like teens who end up years younger than they started and trapped on sucky plots and lame art that..."
           "Jubilation, please stop ranting."
           "Right. Sorry boss."
           "Jubilation makes a good point in such that female characters on the net have a level of integrity not necessarily mirrored in many of our counterparts. Those of you with mainstream roots have certain set images and stories, were as the new characters must completely stand on the strength of their characterization." Emma smiled and stepped back to avoid the screen which descended from the ceiling. Standing in front with Jubilee, she began announcing the images which appeared on the viewer.
           "And the nominees are..." Emma began.
           "Cassie Cantrell, from Neon Hearts. Writer: Susan Crites."
           "Celeste, from Girl Talk. Writer: Denise Keppel."
           "Dawn Embers, from the Dawn Arc."
           "All seven thousand pages of it," quipped Jubilee.
           *sigh* " Jubilation--"
           "I know, I know."
           "Writer: Tapestry."
           "Delphi, from the aptly named Delphi Arc. Writer: Perridox Smith."
           "Jessica Pierce, from Kid Dynamo. Writer: Connie Hirsch." Emma turned to look at Jubilee who was fanatically searching through her purse.
           "What are you doing?"
           "My impression of Falstaff and the results." Emma groaned as the audience erupted in laughter.
           "Reine or Riposte, from Wild Cards. Writer: Elena Zovatto."
           "Renee 'Nightengale' LeBeau, from the Witness set. Writer: Valerie Jones."
           "Sikudhani McCoy, from the X-S series. Writer: Darqstar." A table of blue women of varying ages began to cheer.
           "And finally, Summer Ison, from Story Without A Title/Shades of Gray. Writer: Me."
           "An' da Winna and champion is..." Jubilee yelled.
           "Dawn Embers, from the Dawn Arc. Writer: Tapestry!" Emma said. The floor erupted in cheers as Dawn was helped up onto the stage by Glenn and came to stand beside Tapestry, who'd been shoved out by Kielle to the podium. Both accepted the awards with shy smiles and slightly dazed expressions.
           "Wow, I mean... Wow!" Tapestry said, turning the award over and over in her hands, not quite believing it was really for her. " I, uh, when I started the Dawn Arc, apparently hundreds of years and pages ago, I never expected it to be as popular or loved as everyone tells me it is. I mean, who is going to love a story where the heroine is killed off by sickness? Considering the nominees, I never expected to win against the talent I was up against. Thank you very much, and I hope you enjoy the next thousand pages!" Tapestry left to cheers and huzzahs.
           "That's my writer." The crowd laughed but all could hear the pride in Dawn's voice. "I would like to thank her and my companions without whom, I could not imagine where I'd be." A spotlight caught the table dead center, and the other members of Tapestry's Arc waved gamely at the cheering crowd. "Especially Glenn, who makes living worth the pain of dying sometimes. I'm glad you like the stories, and the numerous drawings people have been willing to contribute for me. It's all very flattering. And a big kiss to Falstaff, for bringing me into the series he loves so much, so that I can twit Tapestry occasionally and not be completely mangled for it. Thank you all again," Dawn said, leaving the stage with a wave. Emma and Jubilee handed the floor back to the MC's, leaving the chaos for them to deal with...

Disclaimer
'K, the Subreality Cafe is Kielle's...again and this is all her fault.
The South Park mix is from Abyss' "Beer And Bunnies."
The Jubilee and Emma host are from my own "To Mistress, With Love..." by Dex
The M/Jubilee pair are Falstaff's from his Arleccino Timeline.
Wolverine and Jubilee pair off in so many bloody fic, you get to pick the one you think I used.
Nightcrawler and the three Storms are from Luba's "Idyll's Of The Cat" series.
Wren is from FritoMuncher's story "Prejudices."
The poor bisexual Cyclops is from Lady Amethyst's "Mhairie."
The Jubilee who bristles at Jubilee's comments is from Laersyn's "Devil's Due."
All of the Marvel characters mentioned are obviously Marvel's. Go figure...
All of the writers mentioned are theoretically themselves, though I know from experience that it isn't always the case. Me? I'm willing to rent out at reasonable rates...feel free to e-mail me for details!

           Falstaff waited until the excited babble died down, then cleared his throat a couple of times, just to make sure that everyone was paying attention. "Next, we have the award for Best New Male Character. Our presenters are...Marvin the Martian and the Tooth Fairy!" Two tiny figures made their way to the lectern. A helpful fic dashed onto the stage with a little set of stairs on wheels, and in a moment Marvin and the Fairy were gazing out at the audience.
           "Oh my! What a wonderful turnout," Marvin said happily. "It's so exciting, isn't it?"
           "Everything excites you, Marvin." The Fairy grinned at him. "But yes, this is a big event. I'm especially thrilled to be here tonight, because I recently got into a fanfic, and it's great to get the chance to meet all you guys. Marvin here has been promised a role too, and well, it's a big thing for two little entities. No cracks about our height, though, or you'll have to petition your writers for new teeth. Okay, I know you're all dying to know who's going to win the big one, so here we go. Marvin, would you like to read the nominations?"
           "Oh, goody." He picked up a very small piece of paper. "The nominees are: Archetype, from 'The Archetype Association' by Mr Jim R. McBriarty; Ash from the Experiment #713 series, which was written by Lori McDonald; Cameron Quinn, who is a character in that wonderful X-S series by Darqstar; Glenn Keaton from the HUGE Dawn Arc by Tapestry; Hotshot, from his very own series by Ben Church; the Manager, from right here in the Subreality Cafe, created by Falstaff; Perkolater, from the Bucktown Timeline by David J. Warner; Shadowflash, from the Shadowflash set by Mitch Kelly; and, oh, how nice, a duo from the talented Ms Valerie Jones, Remai'llon 'Remi' Neramani and Cody LeBeau, both from the Witness arc." Marvin beamed around the crowded room.
           "What a list!" the Tooth Fairy gasped, sitting down on an upturned glass. "It's longer than I am! I could be cruel and drag this out, but I won't. Envelope please?" Marvin carefully passed her an envelope roughly the same size as a matchbox. She opened it carefully, and hovered an inch or so away from the microphone. "And the winner is...Remi Neramani!"
           Everyone applauded. Remi, a handsome, red-haired boy of around fifteen, hurried up onto the stage. "Thank you. I am honoured," he said formally, falling back on protocol training in his excitement.
           "Oh, you've earned it," Marvin assured him, shaking hands and carefully handing him the award. "I enjoyed the series immensly."
           "You did some great work, dear." The Tooth Fairy planted a tiny kiss on his cheek. Remi blushed. "Is there anything you want to say?"
           "Oh...yes, of course. I very much appreciate this. It's...um..." Remi's mind went blank. Then he looked down at Valerie and his family. "Of course, a great deal of the credit goes to my Writer, Valerie, and to the other members of the Witness storyline." He looked down at the award in his hands. "Thank you," he said simply, and walked off the stage.
           "What a nice boy." The Tooth Fairy beamed. "Well, it's time for the next award, so...Falstaff? The stage is yours." Marvin and the Fairy left, towing Marvin's little staircase.

           The stage darkens as a random announcer speaks. "And now, to introduce the presenters for Best New Writer, the X-Quartet!" "YEAH!"
           Three spotlights light up the ceiling as Cyclops, Chamber, and Colossus, smiling brightly (even Jono manages to look happy), descend on ropes, singing a happy rendition of "Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego?" with Cyclops on lead.
           "Doo-op, hoop-a do-bey doo-op, hoop-a do-bey doo-op, hoop-a do-bey doo-op..."
           Just then a fourth spotlight flashes on as Bishop swings across the stage, wearing a smile that sends multiple fics and Writers into sugar shock, his bass "Boooow" filling the room. Continuing to look as if they have never had a moment of angst in their lives, the quartet enthusiastically plunges into the rest of the song.
           Suddenly purple and silver spotlights shine on the slowly parting curtains and two figures step out. One is a flame-haired (can you tell whose writing THIS part???) young woman in purple kelvar body-armor with a silver -=K=- on the front and a green cloak, with "Don' mess wit' de bes', hommes. SCRIBE POWER!!" and a purple henshin stick with a silver -=K=- in the circle embroidered on the back. Next to her walks a supermodel, clad in scanty bits of nothing that can pass for clothing on a foggy day, but none of the attention is on her. Instead the second spotlight is trained on the dark purple pillow with silver trim in her hands, on top of which rests an orange newt with black spots, eyes half closed in contentment and pleasure. Then the newt glances at the crowd and begins to look very annoyed as it realizes this means no privacy.
           They come to the podium and the woman steps up to the microphone. "Grrrrrrrrrrreetings, Subreality!!" she cries and is met with enthusiastic cheers and whistles. "I am Celendra, one half of the twinly presenters for the award of Best New Writer!" The crowd breaks out into new cheering and a few chants begin, namely "Sahlstrom, Sahlstrom," "Dyce, Dyce," and "Falstaff, Falstaff." Those and the invariable crowd of Bobbys that always chants "Emma, Emma" in hopes that it will make them seem less pathetic. Good luck, you're gonna need it.
           "My twin Silvanis is, as those who know us from #fictalk will tell you, the newt you see before you. (pause for momentary newt basking in stage light and question marks hanging over everybody else's heads) He annoyed me a few minutes before we came out, and he insisted that, if he had to be a newt, like it's a bad thing or somethin', he would be carried by one of the 'Third Rock' extras from the Superbowl night and ride on a purple pillow." Celendra shrugs. "He gave in on the happy dust for my 'Carmen Sandiego' thing, so I kind of owed it to him. Anywho, on with the Nominees for tonight's award." She turns to the Third Rock Chick(TM) and gives her a Look (you girls know what I mean). "You may leave now," she says icily as the Third Rock Chick(TM) hands her the pillow and happily scurries away. The newt gives Celendra a Glare Of Death(TM).
           ~Change me back.....I hate telepathic newt-speak,~ says Silvanis.
           Celendra gives an Evil Incarnate with Cherries(TM) grin as she pretends to consider it. "Well, you have been pretty good......I suppose." She reaches one hand up to her hair, giving it a confident *flip*, then puts her hand on her *hip*, spinning and *wink*ing at the same time. *ZAP*.
           As soon as the purple smoke clears a young man wearing a dark purple tuxedo with a silver shirt appears, two silver -=K=- lapels shining in the light. Adjusting his glasses and looking extremely uncomfortable in the tux, he mutters "It's almost worth being a newt..." Looking up, he squints at the teleprompt. "I will now proceed to try to take over the world??? Mervin, get the right message up there!" he yells at the teleprompter. "Sorry about that...where were we? Oh, yes. I'd like to thank the academy, my sister and of cour--OOF!" The OOF! coming from the elbow that has been in ground into his solar plexus by his smiling sister.
           "We haven't even released our fic yet, remember??" she asks, sotto voce.
           He looks annoyed as he is forced to admit, "Oh, yeah. Well, what are we doing here then? OW!" The OW!, of course, being from the slap that just echoed on his forehead.
           "You ditz! A few hours as a cute little newt and you're impossible! The Lady Scribe (pause as the echo dies down) asked us to present the Best New Writer award and we cannot deny the Lady Scribe (echo...echo) anything!"
           Silvanis nods. "Right. The Nominees for Best New Writer are..."
           A huge screen crashes down, landing on a tabby's tail, which sends the tom screeching up into the air with an indignant look on his puss. (Ugh, I can't believe I just wrote a pun!)
           Celendra continues with an apologetic look to the kitty. "Alara Rogers!" The screen starts and words/pictures course down the screen...........

           A hush falls over the crowd as they wait for the next nominee, but they can see already that it's going to be a stiff competition.
           Silvanis turns. "Alicia McKenzie!"

           Celendra smiles. "Nothing like a cliffhanger to make you want to read the story! Our next nominee is Dex!"

           "Geez..," someone in the audience says. "Now I know why everyone says that you can tell that Dex read 'Mhairie' first!!"
           Celendra raps on the podium-type-thingee. "Enough outta the peanut gallery, already!" she calls. "Diamonde!"

           Celendra and Silvanis raise simultaneous eyebrows when the giggling people pick themselves off of the floor and back into their seats. "Thank you," says Silvanis. "Next, is...DuAnn Cowart!"

           "DUN DUN DAAAAHHHH!!!!!!!" cries Celendra at the top of her lungs. She teardrops as she sees everyone give her a Look. "Ummmm...where were we?? Oh, yeah! Dyce!"