At this rate I might just as well come out of retirement, at least as far as Subreality is concerned. *sigh*

This story is my answer to the SubReversity challenge (although it's probably more of an alternate universe story), written especially for Farli. Not that I wouldn't understand if she'd prefer not to have it... oh, and the Captain says that she doesn't hate you, but will have a talk with me soon. I... damn. Gangway! Hunted Writer coming through!

Rating: R -- Mature readers only, folks.

Warning: This is *not* a happy story. If you prefer your Subreality serving to be angst-free and humourous, this is not for you.

Disclaimer: The concept of Subreality belongs to Kielle. Shantytown was created by Seraph. I don't know who created Subreality PD and Villain's Bailiwick, though. The Captain/Iphianassa and her alter-ego belong to me. Ambrosia and Flame are Farli's. However, Ambrosia is public domain, as is Calliope. The Writer and original characters in here are my creations.

John Constantine and Skuld are from Rod M. and David Tai's "The Faith Machine". Remy LeBeau and Scully are from "Faith And Dreams" by Valerie Jones(?). Buffy Summers is from Phil Hartman's stories. The Sailor Scouts and Gen13 are from Skyrocket's "Moonlight Heroes". Obi- Wan is from no particular fanfic, as are Everett and Superboy. Copyrighted characters and materials belong to their respective copyright holder. The songs quoted here are "Come Rain or Come Shine" and "Speak Low", both sung by Billie Holiday.

"Will you be back tomorrow night?" She lay on her side, watching the young man struggle into a pair of faded jeans. Moonlight splashed over her naked form, tangled in the sheets. The light softened her features, blanching her long scarlet hair and smoothing the crow's feet which she thought marred her beauty. Her eyes were shadowed, watching the man intently and waiting for his answer.

"Can't. Sorry." A curse as he fumbled for the buttons. "You-know-who insists I work on the next chapter of that Stargate/X-Men crossover." The Writer smiled at her. "Work before pleasure."

She stretched like a cat, letting the sheets fall away from her body as she sauntered casually towards him. "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," she teased, tracing his jaw like a finger. "Since you won't have me tomorrow..." she slipped her hand down, playing with the waistband of his jeans before moving lower. "Let's make up for lost time."

"I shouldn't," he moaned unsteadily, grasping her wrist.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look like a young prince out of the Arabian Nights?" She pressed a kiss on his lips, spinning a web of sorcery around his mind.

"You stole that from a play."

"Doesn't make it any less true... and I will have you, little prince."

She woke up alone the next morning.

Her eyes felt tender and swollen when she opened them, and she winced as light stabbed into her foggy mind. Pressing her hand on the pillow, she discovered that it was damp. So she cried herself to sleep again. Well, nothing new there.

Slipping into a maroon silk kimono, the red- haired woman staggered into the tiny bathroom. Zeus, I ache, she thought, shivering slightly in the shower -- she'd woken up too late for a share of the hot water. No matter, the aches and occasional bruises were but thorns in her path for the ultimate prize.

"Damn, my eyes look like a puffer fish," she muttered, carefully applying make-up. The eyeshadow wouldn't cover everything, but it'll help. Besides, she thought smugly, I look good enough that it won't really matter.

"I'm gonna love you like nobody loved you, come rain or come shine..." she sang under her breath as she turned slowly before the mirror, admiring her voluptuous form. The figure- hugging miniskirt showed off her slender legs, and her blouse was cut just low enough to set a watcher speculating about the view should she bend down. It was hard work maintaining her figure, but it was worth it. Just long enough. Just long enough until--

"It used to be that you cared about more than your looks, Iphianassa."

"Don't call me that," the redhead snarled, freezing into place. "My name is Cybele, as you very well know." She turned around, blue eyes hardening as she took in the woman standing before her. "What do you want, Ambrosia?"

"Can't I look up my former students once in a while?"

"Huh. Not you."

The violet-eyed Head of Orientation shook her head, sending locks of multi-coloured hair sweeping across her shoulders. "Really." She took a few steps forward, almost reaching out for the younger Muse, only to stop short at her glare. "I'm worried about you."

Cybele crossed her arms. "I'm touched. Here I was, thinking that you only bother to call on your pets."

Ambrosia ignored the rude comment, choosing instead to lean against the tiled wall. "I wasn't sure what to expect when Calliope informed me you left the Collegium," she said gently. "Shantytown isn't exactly what I'd choose for you, but this is actually a nice apartment. Clean."

"I've only been here a few months. Haven't got the time to taint the place yet."

"Iphianassa..."

"Don't you get it, old woman? Iphianassa is dead!" the red-haired Muse shrieked, feeling a touch of guilty satisfaction at Ambrosia's expression. "The Muse you know is gone. Ruined. Dead." She slumped heavily onto the stool before the dresser. "She died when Calliope transferred her away from Romance Fiction -- it just took her a long time to realize it. What's left is me: Cybele."

"It doesn't have to be that way, Iph-- Cybele." Ambrosia approached her cautiously, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sure I can talk to Calliope, get her to assign you to a good writer..."

"Yeah, right." Angrily, the younger Muse shoved her away. "Everyone knows just how much influence you have over the Bitch Queen." Her face twisted, then unfolded into a knowing leer. "Or were you hoping for a little incentive in exchange for a word in the right ear?"

"What do you--" Her words were cut off as an invisible force slammed her against the wall, holding her immobile. An attempt at a scream was aborted as Cybele placed a hand over her mouth, holding her gaze in a sapphire snare.

"I'm not much of a Muse, but I'm damned good at magic," she breathed into Ambrosia's ear, gathering power around her until she glowed like a phoenix. "And I'll find my own Writer."

"You're playing with fire, Cybele," Ambrosia spat out, as soon as her mouth was free.

"Bringing Flame into things now? Sorry, I don't do threesomes," she chuckled darkly. "Go." Abruptly, the redhead released her hold. "Don't come back."

Silvery motes sparkled in the air as the older Muse left without a word, leaving Cybele alone with her thoughts. She stared at the spot where Ambrosia had stood for a while, then shrugged and went to fix her mascara.

"So who's the guy?"

Cybele lowered her copy of the latest Rogue/Remy fic, glaring at the balding man standing beside her table. He slid into the seat opposite her without so much as a by-your- leave, green eyes fixed on hers.

"None of your business, Vecchio," she retorted curtly.

The Italian-American detective, currently with Subreality PD's Shantytown precinct, gave a long-suffering sigh. "Cybele, after what happened the last time, I make it my business."

"Look, the jerk was an anomaly, okay?" She fiddled with her fork, pushing the remains of her breakfast to the center of her plate. "This time, I'm sure he's the one for me."

Sharp eyes searched her face. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"Fuck off."

"Cybele."

"Which part of "go away" don't you understand?"

"Cybele."

It was her turn to sigh. "He didn't, okay? Now will you stop that macho-protective-man thing you've got going? It's really annoying."

He looked unconvinced, but accepted her word in disgruntled silence. "How're you doing?" Vecchio asked, changing the subject.

"Fine," she shrugged. "Waitressing at the Villain's Bailiwick doesn't pay much, but I earn enough to cover the rent -- I haven't thanked you for the apartment, have I? Anyway, at least it's way better than my last job."

"The lieutenant's been looking for a Civilian Aide..."

She laughed. "Not on your life."

"Can't blame a man for trying." He accepted a cup of coffee from the cafe's waitress with a smile. "The Visibles still giving you trouble?" he inquired.

"Nah. Shantytown fictives aren't much against magic." Cybele stirred some sugar into her coffee, casting a speculative look at him. "What about you? New partner working out fine?"

The detective grimaced. "Just when I thought I've seen it all, Mulder dumps another UFO carburetor on my desk." His pager beeped, earning a muttered curse. "Listen, I gotta go. Call me if there's any problem, okay? Even if this Writer of yours looks at you funny."

"Yeah, yeah." Cybele watched his lean, trenchcoated form walk to the door of the cafe. Unhappiness radiated with each step, though he did not look back. "Hey, Ray?" she called out to the only friend she had left. "He really is the one, you know. I'm sure of it."

Ray Vecchio smiled at her, a genuine expression of caring. "Good luck, 'Bele," he said, before closing the door behind him.

She knew it was a weakness she could not afford to cultivate, but Cybele had begun to make a habit of passing the Subreality Cafe on her way home from work. Her shift ended late enough for her to feel confident that if the darkness did not conceal her, the Writers' drunkenness would prevent them from sensing a lone Muse. The Bouncer did not care, as long as she stayed out of the Cafe.

It was, apparently, Crossover Night. John Constantine was telling a joke to a grown-up Skuld, who looked torn between disgust and amusement. Scully and Remy LeBeau shared a table with Obi-Wan Kenobi. Empty glasses and mugs littered their table. Buffy flirted with Everett, while Superboy ogled her from a corner of the bar. The Sailor Scouts and Gen13 were having a noisy karaoke session, punctuated by bursts of laughter.

Cybele bit her lip, watching with longing. Much as she despised the Shantytown fictives, she knew only too well how they felt -- the grey despair of existing without living, the anger they felt at the brightness they could never touch. Not me, she vowed silently. One day I'll be able to step inside the Subreality Cafe as a Muse, and to hell with Calliope.

She brushed tears away from her eyes, walking briskly towards Shantytown. A few stubborn members from the remnants of the Visibles had tried to give her grief over the last few days; while she was reasonable sure she could take care of herself, she preferred not to get into trouble when she could avoid it. Shouldering her backpack, she made her way down the street.

And froze.

It was him, walking slowly towards her. His aura was like a blaze of fire to her senses, warming her chill heart. Smiling happily, she ran towards him, laughing at his grunt of surprise as she hugged him.

"Where have you been, darlin'?" Cybele kissed him, hard. "Haven't seen you around in ages... you haven't forgotten me, have you?"

"No, no. Of course not." He smiled at her uncomfortably, running a hand through his dark hair. "Look, I have tell you something."

"That can wait." The Muse put a hand on the crook of his arm, propelling him gently forward. "I've missed you, you know." Ever so delicately, she worked a spell of suggestion on him. "Let's have a nightcap at my apartment."

"Huh? Oh, sure." He smiled adoringly at her, brushing her cheek with his lips. "I only want to be with you."

"That's good to hear, darlin'. I--"

A blast of magefire blew her off her feet, cutting off her next words. Rolling to a crouch, she stared up into silvery, unforgiving eyes. Their owner's aura was unmistakable, as was the lightsaber in her hands.

"So you're the whore messing with my Writer," the other Muse grated out, dropping into a fighter's stance. "Take the chance I'm offering you, sister: leave. I would wager that Calliope will not begrudge me my vengeance."

"What?" The Writer blinked, pressing his hand against his temple. "Victoria, what are you doing?!"

"Can't you see it? She's been using sorcery on you -- making you her pet, using you to slither back into Calliope's graces." The icy- eyed Muse glared at Cybele, adding, "To put it simply, Writer mine, she pulled a White Queen on you."

He staggered, staring with horror at the redhead.

"You know nothing," she spat at Victoria, fists crackling with power.

"I know enough to make sure you'll never lay a hand on my Writer again, bitch."

Ignoring the Writer's shout of "Stop!", the two Muses circled each other, gauging each other's strength and weaknesses. Victoria struck first, blue lightsaber crackling as it hit an energy shield.

Anger, heartache, and recklessness boiled within Cybele, manifesting itself in a wave of fiery energy. It coiled like a snake from her hands, striking swiftly towards her nemesis.

A cry of pain shattered the night, but it did not come from either of the Muses.

The Writer lay on the pavement, his t-shirt charred and smoking. Blood leaked out, dark red even under the harsh glare of the streetlight. Victoria dropped to her knees and cradled his head in her lap, heedless of the burns marring her skin. Tears trickled down her cheeks. Had he not flung himself in front of her, she would have been... not dead, but grievously injured.

Cybele took a step forward, terrified.

He opened his eyes, hate stabbing at her, and croaked, "Don't touch me."

She fled.

Cybele always kept her apartment clean and tidy for the Writers, conscientiously touching up even the slightest of cracks in the walls. It took too much energy to create furniture, but buying old ones and repairing them with magic was something she could -- barely -- afford.

No use in keeping it up now, she thought, flinging another wine bottle against the wall. It broke with a satisfying smash, the shards joining the multi-coloured collage already littering the floor. The Muses would come for her soon, to bring her before Calliope for judgement. The whey-eyed Muse was probably blubbering to Ambrosia right now, showing her boo-boos to everyone who cared to listen and shrieking for the noose.

She rose unsteadily from her armchair, silk kimono rustling as she opened the liquor cabinet. It was empty. Cybele slammed it shut, wondering where her stash was gone. She staggered towards the kitchenette, knocking over a vase of lilies.

Oh, wait. I already drank the champagne.

She managed to find a can of beer secreted at the back of the fridge, and tottered back to her seat. The liquid sloshed over her lips, running down her neck like foamy tears. She crumpled the can, clutching it in her hand as sobs racked her body.

I'm a fucking failure. Failure, failure, failure. Can't even get a Writer, can't get her life in order, can't get through a day without wishing she was never created.

Rage gave her a new jolt of strength, and she pitched the can at the wall. It bounced off, skittering across a shelf before hitting something with a tinkle. The sound caught her attention, her eyes turning to study its cause.

With trembling hands, she brought down a crystal rose. It had been a present from one of her past Writers, she remembered. She'd destroyed every keepsake she had when she left the Collegium, except this.

Cybele cradled the flower against her chest. It felt cool to her skin, but glowed with an inner light. The Writer who created it was a romantic through and through, and much missed by her Muse. A Writer's life was like a brief spark compared to an immortal, but even centuries of watching her Writers die never quite eased the pain.

There was a song which that particular Writer had loved, the Muse recalled. She played it over and over, up till the night she died of liver failure. What was it, already?

Ah, yes...

"Speak low when you speak love," Cybele warbled, shuffling her feet clumsily in a dance. She spread her arms apart, eyes closed as she spun. "Our summer day withers away too soon, too soon..."

Her motions, building in strength, swept her across the narrow apartment. "I feel wherever I go that tomorrow is near, tomorrow is here and always too soon," the Muse crooned unsteadily, between sobs. She ignored the glass crunching under her feet, pushing away the pain to a far corner of her mind.

Cybele finally came to a stop in front of a mirror, opening her eyes to stare at her reflection. Her counterpart gazed back at her, tangled hair matted with sweat and liquor. The image shifted, wavering into a blur before reforming into an unfamiliar woman.

This woman as a success, she immediately knew. Courage and conviction shone out of her eyes, unclouded by doubts and fears. This woman was strong, intelligent, and forceful in a way befitting a leader.

This woman was everything she wanted to be.

"The curtain descends, everything ends too soon, too soon..."

Cybele reached out to touch the woman, crying out in pain as the smooth surface of the glass barred her way. If only... if only she could only become one with her twin, everything would be all right.

Her brow furrowed, then cleared. Of course -- her magic. Her magic would do the trick, as it always had.

The frantic knocks at the door went unheard as she channeled an explosive burst of energy at the mirror, laughing hysterically.

At last.

The glass shattered, sending thousands of mirror-women raining towards her. Still laughing, she ran forward to embrace them.

THE END

Cybele, FYI, is the Greek and Roman goddess of unrequited lust. She was originally born from Zeus' sperm as a hermaphrodite god named Agditis. However, the gods cut off its penis and only allowed its female half, Cybele, to live. In some versions of the story, the severed penis (or blood from it) was reconstituted as a beautiful male god, Attis. Cybele lusted after him -- said to be as the two halves of Agditis longing to be reunited -- but Attis was so horrified he castrated himself.

If anyone needs me, I'll be at the Writer's Cafe, hiding from the Captain. Meanwhile, feedback at the_jentayu@hotmail.com will greatly ease my temporary exile. ;)