"Wake up!"

"Erh? Huh? Whaz hap'ning?"

"One of your unwritten ideas is missing."

Yasmin blinked up at her Muse, her sleep-drugged mind struggling to process the unexpected information. "Wha' time izzit?"

"3:54am," the Captain answered impatiently. Her features were barely discernible in the darkness, but the clipped tone was unmistakable.

Looking at her blearily, the Writer appeared to be deep in thought over the problem for a few seconds.

"Oh." She turned over, mumbling, "Carry on, then. Lemme sleep. Go 'way."

The Muse glowered, pondering the advisability of poking her Writer in the ribs with her sword. With lingering regret, she instead settled for yelling in her best DI voice, "One of your ideas is missing, Writer, and possibly stolen! Are you going to get up and do something, or am I going to have to drag you out of Reality?"

Now fully awake and irritable, Yasmin threw off her blanket. "You didn't have to shout, y'know." She rubbed her eyes wearily, thinking of the essays she would have to write in about 5 hours' time. "Damn it, I have an exam tomorrow! Can't this bloody thing wait?"

"No." She regarded the Writer steadily. "Though you built the Library of Ideas, I'm the librarian. Therefore, I have certain responsibilities." She took out the silver chain, from which the windchime had formerly hung, and pointed to a sentence carved in tiny letters. "It says here: 'Gen-X new school'. What is it, exactly? This was before my time."

Yasmin blinked again, looking like a stunned panda. "Wow, that takes me back... it's one of my earliest fanfic ideas. Basically, a whole bunch of students and teachers join Xavier's School. All of them mutants, and some are pretty powerful. I tried hard not to make them Mary Sues, but I don't know..." She yawned. "Most of it mutated into bits of other stories, anyway. I've no idea why anybody would want to steal it."

"Do you have anything on the new characters? Bios, maybe descriptions?"

"Sure," said the Writer. She waved towards her laptop. "It's all in the file 'genx.txt'." Stifling another gigantic yawn, she added, "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to go back to sleep. Night." With that she pulled up her blanket and almost instantly dozed off.

The Captain ignored the squeaks of the metal bunk bed as Yasmin settled down to sleep, and switched on the laptop. Having gone through the formalities of typing in the password, enduring the start-up sound clip for the nth time, and finding the file in question, she reluctantly decided her next move. She grimaced, focusing on the black text. For this, she would have to do more than just reading.

With a soft sigh the physical body of the Muse dissolved into fine dust, swirling over the laptop. It settled over the keys like a shroud of silver snow, reflecting the light from the screen. Slowly, the dust seemed to dissolve into the laptop, leaving behind only a faint radiance which soon faded.

When she regained her ability to see, the Captain found herself floating in a blank expanse of white. The whiteness had a slight suggestion of texture to it, as if it was made of paper. She suppressed an sudden need to drag in her Writer and just... fill the blanks. The nothingness could drive a Muse mad, if she or he wasn't careful.

The Captain snapped her hands, and a palmtop appeared before her. "All right, then, let's get acquainted." She read the description of the first character, and said firmly, "Oracle, I call thee to my presence."

A pretty Filipino-Chinese woman, black hair falling nearly to her waist, appeared. Her eyes glowed amber, and her lips seemed to be permanently tilted in a smile. According to the biodata she was a Biology teacher.

"Telepath-telekinetic, weak precognition." The Captain raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Copyright infringement, too." She read further, looking amused. "Spar, I call thee to my presence."

A well-built man was next to appear. His features were not conventionally handsome, but had a gentle and wise air about it. The Muse found herself liking him, despite the faint alarm ringing at the back of her mind.

"Literature teacher, eh?" She looked at him with interest. "Strength and near-invulnerability. Not bad. Dr Chasseur, I call thee to my presence."

The woman was tall, with unusually pale skin. Purple-black feathered wings flared majestically around her muscular form. The turquoise eyes and hair further served to emphasize her mutancy and a kind of alien, cold beauty.

"Flight, long-distance teleportation, agility, and minimal shape-shifting... a third generation mutant? Teaches Physics." She smiled, not entirely out of humour, when she read the next description. "Now the students: Ceres, I call thee to my presence."

A green-haired Asian girl, about 16 years of age or so, came into being. She looked serious and self-conscious, not unlike Paige. But her chartreuse eyes also suggested at a cynicism and a restless wanderlust energy missing in the ambitious blonde.

"Genesis, I call thee to my presence."

Next to Ceres, a slightly younger boy appeared. He had dark auburn hair and mischievious hazel eyes. His posture spoke of an eagerness to get going, like a spring about to uncoil, and his smiling features practically shone with idealism. The t-shirt he wore had a faded image of a mecha on it.

"Great, she wrote in an otaku. I bet he has every Robotech episodes and movies taped. Read all the novels, too." The Captain sighed. "Eros, I call thee to my presence."

An Indian girl appeared, her sable hair stylishly cut. Her tight t-shirt had the phrase "Girl Power" emblazoned across it in bold pink letters. She also wore a pair of jeans that looked as if they cost enough to feed a Third World family for a week. The Muse felt slightly ill.

"After that Inspiration thief, Writer of mine, I'll throttle you. Blaze, I call thee to my presence."

Her first impression of the fictive was of black, scuffed leather. Her next thought was that if Sinead O'Connor dyed her hair blonde, she could play an older version of the girl in a movie. Blaze's gray eyes stared out the world with unconcealed hostility, the delicate lips twisted in a sneer.

"Rebel of the group, I suppose," she noted without enthusiasm. "Right. Let's see... in order: "high-level plant control", regeneration and healing, empathy, and pyrokinetism." The Captain suppressed a snort. "I fear for academia." She studied the teachers and students for a long moment, fixing a feel of their characters into her mind. "I thank thee for thy patience, gentle fictives," she said courteously. "Thou may leave."

The fictives winked out of existence, leaving the Muse to stand in silent plotting. Following suit, she vanished.

The Captain reappeared in the Library of Ideas, accompanied by a sparkle of light and the sound of windchimes. She was still at loss as to the intruder's identity, or even his/her destination. But now that she "knew" the fictives, the trail left by the stolen idea -- much like the mark of a telepath on the astral plane -- was as bright as day.

Like a bloodhound on the hunt, she followed the tell-tale signature until it reached a corner of the library, where it simply vanished without a trace. She barely stopped herself from grinding her teeth in frustration. However, the original trail was still quite fresh, and she hadn't been a war muse for as long as she had without picking up a few pointers.

She drew her sword, the hilt cool and comforting in her hand. With a downward slash, the thin walls between the library and what lies beyond gaped open, revealing blackness. Reversing the sword so that the tip of the blade rested on the carpeted floor, she demanded, "Show me the path to the one I seek."

Other Muses might have used a different, more elaborate technique involving, say, the blood of forty-seven fictives and a needle, but the Captain had her own way of doing things. Despite the odds, it worked, and not because she never understood the significance of symbolism in sorcery. She merely ignored the lightning rod and aimed straight for the ground.

The darkness beyond the rip slowly swirled into a whirlpool, seeming to glow with the cold light of distant nebulas. How... science fiction, she thought. I just hope I won't end up in Cthulhu's arms or something.

A wave of goodbye to the windchimes and a curse to her Writer later, she jumped through, sealing the gap behind her.

PART TWO

Glossary:
Ite! -- Ouch!
Kami-sama -- God/gods (formal form)
Nani? -- A very confused "Huh?"
Daijobu? -- Are you all right?
Daijobu -- I'm all right
Gomen nasai -- I'm sorry
Ne? -- "Isn't it?" or "Right?"
Teme youma! -- You demon/evil spirit!
Shine! -- Die!
Tsuki ni kawatte oshioki yo -- In the name of the moon, I will punish you
Urusai -- Shut up
Gaijin -- Foreigner, anyone who's not Japanese
Sayonara! -- Goodbye!

She now knew what the colour magenta tasted like.

Funny. It's how I've always imagined a roasted Barney would taste like... a sweeter, more slimy chicken.

The Captain flew on, concentrating on the fading trail. Travelling between realities was usually easy for a Muse, but the red-haired woman rarely Mused for anything other than war stories -- until now. It was actually quite pretty, with whirling pools of coloured dust dancing across a starry expanse and many, well, things. Out of the corner of her eyes, she thought she spotted Biggs Darklighter and the real Penance having a tea party.

She thrust her sword forward, slicing open another doorway. The momentum of the motion carried her through, where the law of gravity took its course.

*THUMP!*

"Ite! Kami-sama..."

She had landed on something soft, warm and undeniably alive. Looking down, she saw that she was sitting on a black cape. Working on the principle that someone had to be wearing it, she spotted a tophat. And under the tophat, blue-gray eyes looked reproachfully at her through a white mask. They widened as her appearance registered in their owner's mind.

"Nani?!"

The Muse hurriedly jumped up to her feet, offering a hand to the fallen man. "Daijobu? Gomen nasai... Tuxedo Kamen, ne?"

"Daijobu..." he groaned, rising slowly to feet. She forestalled the question she raw rising to his lips with a hurried wave. Rapidly running out of Japanese phrases, she threw linguistic concerns to the winds and prayed for luck. "Look, I don't know what I'm doing in Japan, but it was an accident, okay? I was looking for something. Have you seen anyone carrying a windchime?"

The masked man blinked, obviously confused. "Windchime?" he repeated haltingly. "No. I'm so--"

"Teme youma! SHINE!"

They turned to behold an obviously angry Sailor Moon, her long blonde pigtails flapping in the wind as she ran towards them. Tuxedo Kamen paled. "We were battling... youma," he started to explain.

"Save it. Looks like your girlfriend's hopping mad and I haven't the time to fight some silly schoolgirl."

By this time, the leader of the Sailor Senshi had struck a pose before the distinctly unimpressed Muse, shouting, "Tsuki ni kawatte oshioki yo!"

"Urusai," snapped the Captain absently. That trail...

Surprised, Sailor Moon could gape at the strange gaijin woman, who stared at the paved street for a few seconds before shaking her head with a snort of disgust.

"A red herring. I should have planned for this." She bowed -- just enough to suggest courtesy -- to the blonde and drew her sword again. The girl stepped back with an alarmed cry, but it died to an awe-struck gasp as the Muse opened yet another gap in reality.

"Sayonara!"

A short trip later, the Captain was relieved to find herself landing on a metal floor, rather than on an annoying reincarnation. It vibrated slightly under her feet, as if she was...

On a ship, and not an aquatic one either. A spaceship. A military vessel, she noted to herself, studying the utilitarian design.

"Great. I'll probably run into armed personnel not three steps later," she muttered glumly. "I wonder what's the name of this ship... it looks familiar, somehow." The trail left by the stolen idea blazed brightly, turning to a corridor on her left.

Her booted foot kicked something, which gave off a faint tinkle. "What's this?" She bent down, picking up a small sliver of glass. Bingo.

"Curiouser and curiouser. You'd think the thief would've been more careful." She walked on, warily following the tracks. The idea could have been unsalvageable if the windchime was damaged. There must be something more here than meets the eye.

"And I'm not seeing it," she said aloud. Again, she was puzzled by the lack of clues to pinpoint the thief. Even the most Andrew Vincent-ed of Gambits would have left something visible to her.

Suddenly, she froze. Was that voices she heard?

"... the hedgehog can never be buggered at all!" sang someone, very badly. "Say, Rinsewind, what's the next line?"

"Something about a snail. I think."

"You sure? I thought it was a horse."

"Naw, I'm sure it's a snail."

The two men (moving in a way that suggested they were trying to dance but failed miserably) staggered through the corridor and past the Captain's hiding place. Catching a sight of the patches on their uniform, she drew in a sharp breath.

She was aboard the Saratoga, in deep space.

"How the hell did that thief get here?" she ground out, annoyed. "I know Yasmin was planning to write a 'Space: Above and Beyond' fanfic, but this..." She studied the tiny piece of glass for a moment, trying to divine a secret denied to her. "This has nothing to do with it... does it?"

She firmly boxed the speculations to the back of her mind, as well as an amused thought of what Ross would do to the two warblers. That could wait later -- she had a thief to catch. Running lightly, and ducking once in a while, she followed the trail until it came to a dead stop in the hydroponics bay.

"Damn, I missed! It can't have gone for more than five minutes!"

The Muse was not amused. With angry slash, she tore open another rip in reality, preparing for yet another journey. She jumped through, just as a well-known scruffed velvet voice shouted through the dimness.

"Halt!"

She turned, and met a familiar pair of icy-blue eyes, narrowed in suspicion. "Sorry!" she called out, just as the rip sealed and she was again between realities.

... fangs gleamed in the moonlight, and a British-accented voice shouted in warning...

... a woman, with hair as red as her own, sat in a basement office. Looking up in alarm at the Muse's appearance, she rose to her feet. Her eyes were wet with tears...

... something flared in the darkness, and the wall next to her exploded in a shower of bricks. There was just enough time to notice a helmeted man before she moved on...

... a tall, dignified gargoyle glided on the winds atop a castle in the skies, diving down sharply as her appearance registered...

... a Mountie and a trenchcoated man argued over two pots of daisies, as a tawny-skinned woman looked on in amusement...

... she flew...

Wherever she ended up next, she knew it wasn't Kansas.

The Captain stepped into a small clearing, surrounded by trees which looked as if Salvador Dali had a hand in their creation. Little sunlight managed to make its way through the thick canopy, but it was enough to make her wish that she was anywhere else. The air was thick with the smell of rotting vegetation, and something slithered past her feet as she determinedly moved forward.

There's something very familiar about the feel of this place, she thought, pushing aside a small branch. The wood felt not quite real under her hand, and she was still speculating on that when a large pasty creature dropped to the ground beside her.

Oh, hell.

A series of thuds marked the arrival of the friends of Tall, Pale and Ugly. In the dim light she could make out matted, dirty hair and long-nailed hands. They looked emaciated as well, though the desperation in their faces told her that their less than healthy condition was not something she should rely on to win.

For a moment, they stood their motionless, as if waiting for a signal. The shortest of them, wearing tattered brown-and-yellow clothing, roared something indiscernible. She tensed.

Sure enough, it was a signal for them to attack.

Her sword whined through the air as she swung them in an arc, severing the head of the one closest to her. Green blood spouted out, staining her uniform. She parried something that sounded like metal, though a tackle from behind prevented her from learning more. She kicked off her assailant, dismayed to discover that the battle attracted even more of the creatures.

"Get away from me!" she yelled at them, thrusting her blade through the ribcage of a particularly persistent attacker. This time the blood was red, and the metallic tang made it all too human for her liking. At her words they seemed to pause, only to resume with renewed vigour.

Something tore its way through her clothing, gouging her back. She cried out in pain. Knowing that the chances of her survival were decreasing by the minute, she tried to fight her way through the mass, to try and escape. But the bodies pinned her to a tight circle. Things were happening to fast for her to concentrate on flying or teleporting the hell out of there, and grimly she let her trained instincts kick in.

"Need a hand?" she thought she heard someone ask, the voice rising above the rush that filled her ears. Whatever she shouted must have been in the affirmative, as minutes later a hand grabbed her elbow.

The world shifted around her.

Finding no enemies attacking her, she blinked, the blood-red haze clearing from her eyes. The Captain stared disbelievingly at the concerned face before her, resisting the impulse to hug him to see if he was real.

"Mentor?" she whispered.

PART THREE

The older man winced.

"Iphianassa, I told you not call me that."

"Just as I told you not to call me Iphianassa, old man," she retorted, rolling her eyes.

He chuckled, deep brown eyes sparkling in amusement. His dark skin was still almost youthful, she noticed, but his once-black hair was now almost completely gray. Without a word, he held out his arms and she gladly reached for him, hugging him tight. She stiffened only slightly when he accidentally touched her wounds, but he caught the movement.

"Turn around," he said, stopping short of making it a command.

"I don't--"

"Please."

Sighing, she complied.

"Death's blood," he cursed under his breath, gently pushing down her shoulders. "Sit down, Iphy, I'll dress them for you." There was a rustle. "No protests about how you can take care of yourself, young lady. Muses may be immortal, but we don't have a healing factor."

"I wondered how long it would take for you to get snarky at me," she commented lightly, zipping down her flightsuit. The Captain glanced around the glade they had materialized in, noting the tent and the remains of a fire. "You're camping?"

"Actually, I was studying the creatures you've been fighting. It's not like I have much to do nowadays," he answered, dabbing at a long cut with some antiseptic. "Hmm... looks as if you're clawed by one of the Forgotten Ones."

"The what?"

"Forgotten Ones. They're fictives, Iphy." He sounded shocked. "Surely you've noticed that?"

She sat up. "No, I didn't. I was too busy fighting for my life... are you saying we're in Subreality?"

"A relatively unknown part of it, yes." She gave him an interrogative look over her shoulder, and he elaborated, "The creatures you fought are forgotten fictives of never-finished stories. Somehow they ended up here and mutated, but I don't know why. It might be the length of time they were abandoned, as it seems as if they preceded the Cafe. Quite impossible, I know."

"I didn't even know they exist," she said, frowning.

"Well, they do now. So far there's precious little I've learned about them, but I think I'm making progress." He glanced up. "What were you doing there, anyway?"

"Looking for a missing windchime." She proceeded to brief him on the theft, adding her speculations and worried questions as the tale ended. "It's already as improbable as it is, and if we're in Subreality..." she shook her head, "the thief has to be either a Writer, a Muse, or a fictive."

"Writers and fictives can't invade a Writer's mindscape, even if they're telepathic," he pointed out. "And Muses are inspiration personified, so it's highly unlikely that any will resort to stealing ideas."

"I know," she said, frustrated. "There has to be more to this than what we're seeing. It's not as if windchimes can get up and walk away, can they?"

"No, they can't," he agreed. "There, I've finished. Don't get into fights, and you'll be fine. By the way... what are you calling yourself now?"

"My Writer calls me the Captain."

"I like Iphianassa better."

She regarded him with amusement. "You're just biased. What about you?"

"Tristram." He grinned at her.

"Gods in Olympus... Tristram? Have you gone romantic in your old age?"

"Are you saying I was not?" He laughed. "I felt like a change," he explained, carefully arranging the medicines and gauze bandage in a small bag. "The new name is just part of it."

"I prefer Falcon."

"You're pouting, Iphy..."

"I am not pouting, and please don't call me Iphianassa or Iphy," she said firmly, glaring at him.

"As my lady wishes." He bowed at her for a moment before turning serious. "What are you going to do now?"

"Go back there and find the trail. Avoid the Hungry Ones."

"Forgotten Ones."

"As my lord wishes." She concentrated, and her flightsuit returned to it former pristine condition. "Do you have something I can clean my sword with?"

Tristram tossed a rag at her. "I'd better go with you," he said, after a thoughtful silence.

"No, you'd better not. I'm a big girl, mentor," she argued indignantly. "You don't have to go all fatherly on me -- I can handle this myself." Crossing her arms, she added, "I'm more than a thousand years old, for Zeus' sakes. Don't you think it's about time you stop being so protective?"

He looked benignly at her. "Iphy, I've spent the past month alone, except for a few birds and an army of creatures who want to eat my flesh. Surely you can indulge an old man's fancy..."

"That puppy dog eyes look is really not you, you know," she muttered. Resigned to the inevitable, knowing he would only argue until he got his way or until she knocked him unconscious, the Captain nodded at him. "Fine, just don't call me Iphy."

"Tell you what," he said with a smile. "If I let you call me Falcon, would you allow me to call you Iphy?"

"Drive a hard bargain, why don't you?" she snorted, grinning despite herself.

"Part of my duty as your former mentor, m'dear," he joked with an answering grin.

"Let's get started, then." She paused, sliding her sword back into the scabbard. "I just realized something... this being Subreality, we don't have to go back to Hungry's dinner table."

Their eyes met, and a bulb went off in Tristram's head. "Subreality Cafe!" he exclaimed.

"Everyone in Subreality ends up there sooner or later. Or, at the very least, we'll find someone with something to tell." She tilted her head slightly to one side. "Sometimes not entirely voluntary."

Although they nearly matched in height, Tristram's body was much bulkier than the Captain's. This was however amply compensated by her bearing, as the less confrontational denizens of Subreality demonstrated by slipping silently out of the way.

The two Muses walked down a narrow lane, stopping once in a while to argue about directions. The Captain had exchanged her flightsuit for a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and a bomber jacket. Her companion had opted for less casual clothing, attired in a white dress shirt, tailored trousers and a trenchcoat. To her relief, he took her advice and exchanged the UFO-patterned tie he had initially chosen for a black one with diagonal red stripes.

"It's this way," he insisted, pointing down a dark alley.

"You must be joking. Do you really want to go down there?"

He paused. "Not particularly."

"Good." She took his arm, dragging him towards the opposite direction. "This way, then."

After much "discussion" and a run-in with a group of Jackie Estacados looking for trouble (more than a few of them would not be conscious for trouble in the next few days), they finally arrived at Subreality Cafe. It looked slightly more amorphous than usual, shifting between an old English pub and a salon.

"Great. It looks as if there're more than one Writer inside," the Captain growled darkly.

"Trouble?"

"You'd better believe it. If it's not those predatory bunny slippers, it'll probably be a bunch of pissed-off fictives trying to kill their Writers."

Tristram ran his fingers through his close-cropped hair, looking less than enthusiastic. "And the good news would be...?"

"The trail leads inside. Once more into the breach, Falc?"

He smiled at her. "Once more into the breach," he affirmed. "Just like old times."

They entered the Cafe without ceremony, letting the light and sounds and warmth wash over them.

PART FOUR

"Is it always this noisy in here?" Tristram asked, raising his voice above the din.

"Depends on the Writer," the Captain answered. "Obviously the current one likes the music just a little too loud." She was annoyed when, as they entered the Cafe, her former mentor immediately moved to a protective stance. Not one of a warrior guarding another's flank, but more like a lioness defending her cub.

"Stop that," she hissed.

He gave her an innocent I-don't-know-what-you're-talking-about look.

She gritted her teeth. "Dammit, Falcon, sometimes you really make me feel like a newbie Muse again. But I'm not, so back off."

For a cold moment she thought he was going to argue the point, but after a soft sigh, he relaxed and moved back. "Sorry," he whispered, squeezing her hand. "You're very dear to me, Iphianassa... I can't seem to help it."

She gave his hand a squeeze in return, accepting his apology. "I need a partner and a friend, old man, not a protector." Her smile took away the sting of the words, and she added, "So no Buffy-Giles thing, and we'll get along just fine."

"You'll make a terrible blonde, anyway," he chuckled, wincing a little at the punch landing on his arm. "Where do we start looking?"

"We don't."

"So we sit somewhere inconspicuous and observe?"

"And wait for them to come to us."

They sat at a dim corner booth, from which they could watch the Cafe without looking obvious about it. Fortunately, despite its outer appearance, the interior remained more or less stable throughout the evening. A few Gambit and Johnny Storm fictives, emboldened despite her forbidding stare, had to be sent packing. Quietly. She grimaced, thinking of she would really like to do to them.

"Do you still drink martinis?" he asked after about two hours of giving everything and everyone the eagle eye.

"Yes, why do you ask?" The Captain arched an eyebrow. "Never mind. To answer your unspoken question, the drinks here are excellent. Just don't ask for American beer."

He smiled slightly and took off towards the bar. The red-haired Muse spared a glance at his back, feeling a familiar mix of affection and ambivalence. She had been merely a girl, fresh from Ambrosia's training, when she first met him. Tristram had guided her through her early unsure years as a Muse for war stories, lending his experience and his sympathy. He was, she remembered, a few centuries older than her. The Captain was the last Muse he had taken under his wing, and she doubted she could have had a better teacher.

Zeus, but he can be a terrible pain at times, she thought.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

She looked up, slightly mortified at being caught off-guard, to see Tristram handing her a martini. She accepted it without a word, save for a mumbled "thanks." He raised his eyebrow and took his seat opposite her, pouring some wine.

"Just thinking about you," she finally said.

The eyebrow inched higher. "I'd say that I'm flattered, except I doubt that your thoughts are warm and fuzzy."

"Well... it's not as if you've given cause for me to do so," she commented dryly. "First you disappear out of my life for fifty years, and when I finally see you again you treat me like a child. Attaching yourself to me like a guard dog hasn't exactly endeared you to me, you know."

"I know, and I'm sorry. Fifty years... I didn't know it's been that long." Tristram's expression was sombre. "If I had a choice, I would've called."

Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, if you had a choice?"

He avoided her eyes, sipping the wine as if it was nectar. Her mentor rarely drank, the Captain remembered suddenly, feeling a lead weight settle in the pit of her stomach. He couldn't have become a wine connoisseur, could he? she wondered.

"Falcon... this doesn't have anything to do with your assignments, does it? I heard about your sabbatical last year."

"No. I don't have a complaint about my work." The chocolate-eyed Muse looked as if he was going to add something, but decided against it. Instead, he said, "I'm thinking of retiring."

She stared at him in shock. "Why?" she finally managed to ask.

"I'm getting too old for this, Iphy," he said evenly. "Besides, Calliope thinks--"

"Who cares what Calliope thinks? Falc, you know better than to listen to the Bitch Queen!"

He gave her a mild look. "She hasn't always been this harsh. Why, I heard she even fell in love, once."

"Right," she snorted. "Calliope's the type to take lovers but doesn't give any in return. She probably chased him off with that fiery harridan act of hers. But this isn't about her, this is about you. I..."

"Yes?"

She scanned the Cafe, looking for any tell-tale signs. Like a lone firefly in moonlit darkness, the trail was barely visible among the fictives and Writers, but it was there. "Come on, I saw something."

He rose, reaching inside his trenchcoat to readjust the Minbari pike concealed within it. The pike had been a gift from a Marcus Cole fictive, during one of his jaunts to Babylon 5. "Is it what you're looking for?" he asked in a low voice.

She hesitated. "It's too faint. More likely whoever it is had recent contact with the windchime," she decided.

"It feels odd to refer to an unwritten inspiration as a windchime," he commented, moving around two carousing Hercules fictives.

The Captain almost smiled. "You'll soon learn to adjust. Get ready for action," she warned him. "We're getting nearer."

She concentrated on the fading trail, leaving Tristram to apologize for spilled drinks and other minor accidents. A blue-furred body soon came into view, obscured by a white laboratory coat. He was sitting alone at a table, enjoying a pina colada.

Thank the gods he isn't the Dark Beast, she thought after a few seconds' scrutiny.

Sensing her approach, the mutant turned around and flashed a toothy grin. "How doth my lady Muse fares today?" he greeted her. "Pull up a seat, m'dear, and your friend too."

"Fine, thank you." A little disconcerted by his cheer, she steeled herself and forged on. "Have you seen a windchime lately?"

"A windchime?" Hank McCoy looked puzzled. "No, why?"

Ignoring his question, Tristram joined the interrogation. "Writers?"

"Not at all."

"What about..." she watched the scientist's face carefully, "a couple of fictives?"

"Which includes any or all of the following: a pale-skinned woman with wings, a green-haired Asian girl, a telepath, a boy with healing powers, and a blonde with a chip on her shoulder," he added.

Hank began to sweat. "I... I'm sure I haven't," he stuttered out. One large hand reached out for his forehead, massaging the temple. "Wait... I think... I don't know..." He mumbled something. "I remember something..."

"Remember what?" the Captain urged.

"Some people came to see me... yesterday? Today? Last year?"

The table burst into flames, its searing fingers reaching for the roof. With a yell of alarm, Tristam leapt away, pulling with him his fellow Muse. Hank was veiled by the smoke and fire, though the smell of singed fur told them he had not escaped unscathed. A bright light flashed through the roiling fumes, and the fire died just as suddenly as its birth. The blue-furred X-Man was, however, nowhere in sight.

"What's going on in here?" the Manager demanded, still clasping a fire extinguisher. She/he looked more angry than alarmed, though a significant proportion of the Cafe's patrons were well out of the door.

"We don't know," she tried to explain. "We were talking to McCoy, and suddenly the table caught... fire."

"And now he's gone," the older Muse chipped in.

"I can't allow the Cafe to be destroyed again..." the Manager started, but his/her rant went unheard by the Muses. They looked at each other in horror as the significance of the events sank in.

"Isn't one of the fictives in the missing inspiration a pyrokinetic?" Tristram asked, not quite believing the obvious conclusion.

The Captain nodded. "One of them is a long range teleporter, too." She looked horrified. "Gods, Falcon, we never even considered that something like this could happen."

"We did. We just dismissed it," he sounded just as terrible as she felt, and his forehead creased as he frowned heavily. "They're just like the Forgotten Ones now, Iphy. Whatever human compassion and morals Yasmin put into them... they're gone now."

"They just want to survive," she agreed. "I think they tried to make McCoy clone bodies for them, and wiped his memory. Because the telepath hasn't been written yet, she didn't do it perfectly." The Captain gripped the hilt of her sword. "I never thought I'd see the day unwritten fictives would go this far to be alive."

PART FIVE

"I feel like a character from a Tom Clancy novel," the Captain muttered, staring out at Subreality City.

"John LeCarre," Tristram corrected.

She gave him a look. "Clancy has better weaponry."

After being thrown out of the Subreality Cafe by an irate Bouncer, they had decided to adjourn somewhere safe. The House of Unfinished Ideas, the tallest building in the city, was selected by mutual consent. There was something comforting about it to a Muse, and its height and relative openness ensured that eavesdroppers would have a difficult time.

"Better weaponry or not, Clancy can't help us now," he pointed out. "I don't think that Yasmin will be pleased if you use a fictive-seeking missile on her story idea."

"Even if I thought I could, Muses are forbidden to destroy inspiration, no matter how bad. Insult, yes, annihilate, no." She shuddered. "And thus we have stories like Pokemon lemons."

"Pokemon?"

"You don't want to know. I was dragged into it by my Writer."

Tristram looked horrified. "She wrote a Pokemon lemon?"

"No! She just read the MiSTing, thank Zeus."

"Ah." He smiled. "Joel Hodgson's Muse must be very proud of MST3K."

Fictives and Writers milled around them, enjoying the quiet evening. The Captain and Tristram were somewhat relieved to find that no Muses were present -- though the older Muse had another reason for it. They walked in random directions, trying not to draw attention to themselves.

"Suggestions, Iphy?"

She tucked back an errant wisp of red hair, looking up at the night sky. "I think I'll have to get the windchime back, and trap them in it somehow. I really can't see any other alternative... this is not looking good."

"You're right," he agreed soberly. "The problem, it seems to me, is how do we go about doing so. You and I are both sorcery-users, but neither of us are proficient enough for a powerful spell."

"I would drag Yasmin back in here, but she won't be available for a few hours yet. With her Writer powers, she could solve this with a few words." The Captain leaned back, resting lightly against her former mentor. "I wish our reunion didn't have to happen like this."

"Why? You're here, I'm here... what's the problem?" he chuckled.

"You're being deliberately obtuse." She raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Need I remind you that we're hunting down a group of ruthless fictives, who'd tear off our heads given the slightest chance?"

"Very true. I should have run for the hills when I had the chance."

"Oooh, sarcasm."

He curled an arm around her shoulders. "Mortal danger or no mortal danger, I'm still happy we met. I don't imagine I will get much chance to see you when I retire."

"Are you still hung up on that?" she growled. "Why, Falcon? You're not much older than me -- considering an immortal lifespan. You said it wasn't your job, so what in Hades is it?"

"It is about my job," he admitted.

"But you said--"

"I said I didn't have a complaint about my work," he reminded her. "I don't. Calliope still assigns me to good writers, and I've been inspiring some of the best works in years. It isn't the job's fault, it's mine."

"Go on," she said, fighting to keep her voice level. Splitting hairs -- this can't be good.

"Being a Muse isn't enough anymore, Iphy. Consider our existence: we become Muse for a Writer, we provide inspiration, we move on, and the cycle begins anew." Tristram clenched his fists. "I don't want to be a slave to routine for the rest of my life. What about a chance to explore new avenues, to change my life? Maybe, if it will ever be possible... I want to write."

"I see."

His eyes were full of regret and sorrow as they gazed at her. "I'm so sorry, m'dear. I shouldn't have dumped this on you."

"Shut. Up." She glared at him. "Tell me something, Falcon, do you think I'm fragile?"

"No..."

"Then quit the angst and listen to me: I can take whatever you can dish out, old man. You're more than my mentor. You're also my friend, and in a way, the only family I ever had. Why didn't you come to me earlier? Why the fifty years of silence?" She fought the urge to punch him, intent on not shrieking out her anger. "I can understand you wanting a new life, but why did you leave me without a word?"

"That doesn't have anything to do with my future retirement." A heavy sigh escaped his lips. "Calliope thought I was getting too involved with you," he finally admitted, in a voice so soft she could barely hear him.

"WHAT?!" Rage coursed through her blood, tinging her sight with crimson. "That conniving, arrogant, stupid piece of Olympus trash!"

Tristram caught her arm. "Please, Iphianassa, promise me you won't do anything to our Queen."

"You must be joking!"

"Stand down, Captain," he commanded sternly.

She choked down a curse, making do with a look that would have melted admantium. "As you wish," she said icily.

It was precisely at the moment that a scream rang out, shattering the peaceful night. A few miles to the west of the House of Unfinished Ideas, a building burned red-bright, plumes of smoke rising up to reach the stars. Out of the corner of her eyes the Captain could spot a group of Sailors Mercury already rushing towards the scene, courtesy of superpowered fliers.

"The pyrokinetic, you think?" Tristram asked, not quite pleased with a reprieve from the uncomfortable scene.

"Could be," she said cautiously, snapping back into professional mode. "Ororo!" she shouted at a nearby woman, waving her hands. "Do you think you could get us there?"

"Gladly," answered the white-haired X-Woman, already summoning the winds.

As the distance between them and the fire lessened, the true extent of the destruction became clearer. Not only were a number of the cafes and pubs ablaze, the streets were strewn with rubble and furniture. Clearly, the rogue fictives had added looting to their growing list of felonies.

Large, misshapen vines protruded out of the ground. The combined water-based attacks of the Sailors more or less put the fire under control, but did nothing to kill the writhing plants. As they watched, a tendril curled around the ankle of a Robin, dragging him across the pavement.

"Oh, hell," the Captain cursed forcefully.

"I concur. Ms. Munroe, could you please put us down now?"

They landed at the periphery of ground zero, studying the chaotic scene with dismay. Firestar, Burnout, Sara Pezzini, and a few others were attempting to kill the plants with heat, sending charred husks everywhere. But for every vine they destroyed, two more grew to take its place. The fires raged again despite the Mercuries' efforts, and not even help from Storm and Aspen had any discernible effect.

"How are we going to find them in this mess?"

"The range of their powers must be limited by distance, so logically they have be near," Tristram reasoned.

"There're a dozen places they can hide in here," she argued. "They must know I can track them, somehow, because I can't make out a trail anywhere. Too many people around." She kept a loose hold on the hilt of her sword. "I can feel them if they're very near, though. Be thankful we're resistant to telepathic probes."

"After this is over, I'll make some sacrificial offerings." He gestured towards a shop. "Shall we start from there?"

"LOOK OUT!" yelled someone. Jolt dived towards them, energy crackling around her clenched fists. "Get out of the way -- I'll handle this!"

The Captain's eyes widened as she saw the tiny seed-like pellets shooting towards them, and her brains made the connection seconds later. "NO! Don't--"

Seconds too late.

The seeds struck the young girl with the force of a bullet, penetrating her flesh. Her gasps of pain turned into screams as thorny vines grew like wildfire, bursting through her skin. Bones cracked. Circling and squeezing her body in a sick parody of a lover, the mutated plant finally released its victim to the mercy of death. Whatever was left of the body twitched for a second, then lay still in a splatter of blood.

"Less than a minute," the Muse murmured, feeling her blood turn to ice. "Just like how Kurama defeated an enemy in 'Yuu Yuu Hakusho'. One of the fictives is an otaku... I'm sure he'd know what Yasmin knows about anime and manga."

"Death's blood," her companion swore. "They were aimed straight at us, Iphy, and she got in the way. The poor girl..."

"I know." She cast a suspicious look around, unsheathing her sword. Beside her Tristram took out his Minbari pike, extending it to its proper length. "I don't suppose you carry round two sets of admantium armour?" she asked idly.

"I'm afraid not, and I don't suppose caution is much of a substitute."

She replied, "At least now we know that the fictives are within visual range. Otherwise I don't think they could have attacked with that much accuracy." I hope, she added mentally.

"What about the telepath? I'm surprised she hasn't tried to invade our minds yet."

"I hadn't thought of that..." She frowned, trying to find a logical explanation. "You're right -- if she's staying out of this, why?"

Tristram dodged an airborne brick. "For that matter, why are they doing this? What could they hope to gain from mass destruction?"

"Maybe they wanted attention, like terrorists," she suggested, leaping lightly over the scorched remains of a dustbin. "If so, we can expect a statement about their cause next morning."

"It's counter-productive," he argued. "No Writer would ever make them "real" then -- they'll just be written out of existence."

"What makes you so sure they can still reason? Unless this is just one big ruse..." The Captain raised her head, like a hunter catching a whiff of its prey. "This way," she said, pointing a dark lane.

"Why does it have to be somewhere dark and deserted?" he grumbled, but faithfully followed after her.

The trail glowed in the night, visible only to her eyes. Ignoring the distant roar of the fire and the frightened screams, she focused only on the thought of bringing in her prey. Something niggled at the back of her mind, an insiduous voice whispering that it was too easy, too obvious...

A sound like tearing silk was the only warning she got, before a spear buried itself in the wall next to where her head had been. Four more joined their sibling, nearly impaling her.

"Ambush!" Tristram yelled. "Anansi's curse, Iphy -- back off, it's a trap!"

"I'm on it!" she shouted, already on the run. Their path was, however, broken... literally. The ground below their feet trembled, cracks forming in the cobbled lane. With a sharp KRAK! a chasm yawned between them and their escape route. Any hope of jumping across it was dashed as mutated relatives of the oak tree shot up from the gap, effectively imprisoning them.

"I get the uneasy feeling that the fictives are much more intelligent than we thought," he said in a low voice.

"No kidding," she shot back.

"D'ye like how they thought us stupid, Lea?" sneered a voice just above them. A blonde wearing a leather jacket floated to the group, supported by superheated air. Her features seemed almost plastic, lacking one final touch that would make it truly human. If that wasn't enough to confirm her identity, her accent was. It flickered in and out randomly, like a lightbulb near the end of its life.

She was joined by another girl, this one a green-haired Asian. Her chartreuse eyes regarded the Muses with an unfathomable expression, though the Captain would bet her sword that compassion wasn't part of it. "Not at all," she answered coolly, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Maybe we should... enlighten them."

"Blaze and Ceres, I presume," the younger Muse greeted them sardonically. A snort of laughter from Tristram rewarded her effort.

"You presumed correctly," Ceres answered. Turning to her partner, she said casually, "Should we kill them now?"

The Captain felt Tristram stiffen at her side, ready to repell any attack.

"Nah," Blaze smirked. "They get t'ask what we want first, and we spill the beans about our grand plan. Ain't it how these things go?"

"No harm in following procedures," agreed Tristram. "So... what do you want?"

Blaze's features twisted. "We want t'live, yer bastards, and th' Writer bitch never even wrote one bloody paragraph about us."

"Instead, she chose to use bits and pieces of us for other stories," Ceres took up the story. Her eyes burned with anger. "Can you imagine our humiliation? We, the first goddamn fanfic idea she ever really had, parceled out bit by bit while we rot forevermore in the library... WE WANT OUR RIGHTS!"

"You have no rights!" said the Captain vehemently. "You're all part of a story idea, for Zeus' sakes, nothing more. The Writer reserves the right to use you or not, and you have no say in what she does!"

"We would have, if she bothered t'write our story!" shrieked the pyrokinetic. She let loose with a ball of flame, blackening the stones near the Muse's feet. The Captain did not flinch. "But she didn't!"

"You're here to capture us, aren't you?" Ceres glowered, raising her hands. "Not in a thousand years, lord and lady. Blaze -- attack!"

PART SIX

The battle is not going well for us, the Captain thought. At the present she was engaged in parrying a mace, amply wielded by the seemingly weaker girl. The fictive's green hair was lank with sweat, but she showed no sign of needing a rest. In fact, Ceres' manic grin grew wider as minutes passed.

Metres away from the dueling pair, Tristram thanked every god he could think of for him having the foresight to make his trenchcoat fireproof. The scorching heat of Blaze's attacks presented a more pressing problem, but the long reach of his Minbari pike partially compensated for it.

So did her erratic temper and overconfidence. He pretended to take a blow to the side, doubled over as if in pain. Predictably, she went in for the kill... which he took full advantage of. Whirling around, the force of his blow sent the mutant flying towards the trees. She impacted with a loud thud, sliding to the ground in a heap.

His victory was a short-lived one. Acknowledging her teammate's distress, Ceres aimed a large thorn-spear at him, still fighting the red-haired Muse. Tristram's training was too good for him not to see the weapon and dodge it, which would have worked -- save for one unforeseen variable.

Seconds before the spear left Ceres' hand, where it had mutated from a piece of bark, the Captain lunged forward. In an effort to escape the gleaming blade Ceres stepped back and tripped, smacking against the cobblestones. Her usually accurate aim was disrupted in the fall, sending the thorn-spear flying a few crucial inches off-mark.

Straight through the middle of Tristram's torso.

The Captain's roar of anguish and rage echoed in the night, answering his cry of pain. She brought up her sword over the stunned mutant, smashing the flat of the blade against the side of Ceres' head. Not caring whether her opponent was still breathing, she ran to her companion's aid.

"Falcon... gods, I'm so sorry," she all but sobbed, cradling his head in her lap.

"Wasn't your fault," he choked out, trying to sound calm and failing. His sight seemed to turn inwards, the eyes looking up at her face not really seeing at all.

"Hold on, mentor. I'll teleport you to Subreality Hospital in a jiffy," she promised incoherently. Can Muses die? she wondered numbly. We're supposed to be immortal, but no one had ever cared to test whether that's really true...

"Remember your duty," he mumbled, grasping weakly at her hand. "You know... I tried to make Calliope change her mind, to let you stay." He was rambling now, going into shock. "You love war stories, I told her. But she wouldn't listen... I wasn't strong enough to fight for you. I'm sorry, love. I'm sorry."

"You don't have anything to apologize for, Falcon." Trying to comfort him, even as her anger at Calliope flared again, she said, "Shush, I will catch the rogues, don't you worry." Think of the hospital's location, think! the redhead ordered herself, pulling the coordinates from the recesses of her memory.

"Too late," someone laughed weakly. The Captain turned, seeing through narrowed eyes the blonde pyrokinetic leering at her. "D'ye think this is all there is t'it? While yer busy fighting us... we got yer Writer. And when she finally writes us, there ain't nothing ye can do," she gloated, still prone on the cobblestones.

"SHUT THE HELL UP!" The Muse gathered Tristram into her arms, fixing the image of Subreality Hospital in her mind. "I'll be back for you, murderer," she vowed darkly, moments before blinking out of sight.

Looking back at that night, the Captain would often find cause to brood, obsessively replaying the fight in her head and trying desperately not to blame herself. Success, unfortunately, would always elude her grasp.

In the end, the Captain sent two Green Lanterns in her stead, with strict instructions to encase Ceres and Blaze at all times within separate forcefields. She had added, so fiercely that they actually took a step back, "And for Hades' sakes find a Writer to create a maximum security prison."

"Captain?"

The Muse stopped her restless pacing, looking up at the doctor. The Subreality Film Noir version of Dr. Strange stood before her, uneasiness communicating itself in his very posture. It's been six hours, she realized, glancing at a nearby clock. Her heart beat faster, fear making the blood rush through her veins.

"Yes?" she forced herself to speak.

"I'm afraid that Mr. Tristram's injuries are more severe than we expected. As I understand it, Muses are considered to be immortal, but do not possess a healing factor. Your friend is... very human. The spear, aside from damaging several major organs, fractured his spine. I'm quite sure he will survive and it's really too early to tell for sure, but," he let out a breath, "he may never walk again."

Her heart froze to a stop, becoming stone.

"May I see him?"

Stephen Strange hesitated, but finally said, "Yes. This way, please."

The figure that laid in repose on the bed seemed more dead than alive. She made her way cautiously towards him, irrationally afraid that any overt movement on her part would hurt him. His face was ashen, and she belatedly realized that his blood still decorated her clothes.

"Mors' bones, Falcon, you chose a really great time to pull this deathbed soap opera thing," she said unsteadily. The Captain gripped one his hands lightly, trying to warm the cold flesh. "You know I'm no good at being touchy-feely, so... just get well, okay? White really isn't your colour. I need you to get well."

She bit her bottom lip, holding back her tears by sheer force of will. "I swear on my sword and my blood: I'll bring back those rogue fictives if it kills me."

With a light stroke of her blade, she cut the palm of her hand. Hissing softly at the pain, she let her blood drip down the smooth metal, sealing her vow.

"Farewell, mentor," she whispered. Looking around and finding no one watching, she leaned over and kissed his brow. "Be strong."

As she left the ward, she never even noticed a blonde woman staring after her with interest. Calliope glanced at the Muse on the bed, then back at the Captain, grimacing ever so slightly.

"A fine mess you've created here, Tristram," she muttered irritably. "I suppose it is up to me to make the best of it."

Fact: the fictives have Yasmin and I don't know where they are, the Captain deliberated, reviewing her admittedly scant knowledge of the situation. However, without me at her side, she probably won't be able to come up with story ideas. So where do they get any? Kidnapping a Muse is far too difficult.

She adjusted the lightweight armour covering her black flightsuit, strapping on her sword. The Captain had disdained skintight spandex, choosing instead a modified version of her usual clothing. After a few minutes of deliberation, she stored some of what would be nasty surpises for the fictives in her utility belt. The reality-warping Sig Sauer her Writer had given her once, when they fought TAPSLAUGHT, was belted to her left hip. It was not a weapon she allowed herself to become fond of, but she was leaving nothing to chance.

The redhead examined the arsenal arrayed on the table, finally selecting a pen and a small notepad. You never know when Yasmin might need to write in a hurry and, in Subreality, the pen is mightier than a dozen Galactuses hopped up on Lucozade, the Muse reasoned. Now, where do I go from here? They have Yasmin, but they need story ideas... bingo.

The House of Unfinished Ideas looked untouched, but she could see the fictives' marks all over the entrance. A few passing Writers looked curiously at her as she stood there in silence, but none commented. In a land where trenchcoats ruled the streets, the dark gray one she wore not only hid her clothes but also made her inconspicious.

Cursing softly, she crouched down and picked up an object. It was a small owl, carved from a single piece of reddish wood. The bird was one of Yasmin's favourite trinkets, and a replica of it sat in the Library of Ideas. Whoever the creator was, he or she had cleverly made it so that its belly caged a smaller owl.

The symbolism was obvious.

Her lips quirked. Turning it over, she found a small piece of paper stuck at the bottom The note, written in a woman's elegant cursive, said briefly: "You have what we want, and vice versa. Come to the Alice's Island."

The Captain methodically tore the note into small pieces, disposing it in a nearby garbage bin. Obviously they couldn't make any use of the ideas they stole, she thought, walking away from the tall building. Then again, maybe they just want to get rid of me.

Tucking away the owl in a pocket, she checked her finances. For this trip, she was going to need more than a convenient teleporting ability...

"Are you sure this is real copper?"

"Look, I don't have time to argue with you. Let's just say it is, okay?"

Charon looked at her mournfully. The aged boatman ferried passengers around the shores of Shifting Sands, occasionally consenting to go farther out into the sea for an appropriate fee. Not, it should be made clear here, always with enthusiasm.

"You weren't the one imprisoned in a rock-cleft for a year," he retorted.

The Captain raised an eyebrow. "First of all, it wasn't my fault you decided to take Heracles across the Styx."

"He threatened me!" protested the white-haired man.

"Secondly, you're not working for Hades anymore, so try to unclench," she finished. "Will you take me to Alice's Island or not?"

He sighed, gesturing to his boat. "Make yourself comfortable. The sea is a bit choppy today, so I hope you didn't eat a big lunch."

"I don't need to eat," she said dryly. "But point taken."

Charon harrumphed, rowing out into the clear waters. "I don't understand why you didn't just ask one of the fliers to take you there," he complained.

She smiled briefly, holding out a small replica of a lyre. "Symbolism."

Ignoring Charon's half-audible mutterings, the Muse gazed at the green splotch on the horizon. I'm coming, you bastards, and there's nothing you can do to stop me from being true to my oath.

PART SEVEN

Had it been an alternate universe where circumtances were vastly different, the Captain would have almost liked Alice's Island. Created by an unknown Writer, who happened to be a Lewis Carroll fan, the island was shaped like a rabbit's head. Beautiful sandy beaches framed the greenery, inviting picnickers to relax, have a coconut or two, and strum a guitar while singing "La Bamba".

There was, however, a reason why the island was usually deserted. Even by Subreality standards, Alice's Island was a place where reason went mad and took off all its clothes.

As the Captain stepped off the boat, a dozen oysters scampered by, chattering away. She spotted a walrus trying to hide behind a coconut tree, drooling at the sight of the molluscs.

"Err... will you be needing my services any longer, Captain?" asked Charon nervously. He was staring wide-eyed at a man in an old-fashioned bathing suit, who waved a bell about noisily and shouted something about snarks.

"Yes, but not now. Wait for my signal."

He gave her a look which said "do I look like a telepath?" and asked, "How will I know if it's your signal?"

"Trust me, Charon -- you'll know." She waved at him, setting off towards the forest. "I'll be seeing you!"

Where her booted feet left prints in the sand, plants shoot forth, sending out dark green leaves. In the space of five minutes, blood red flowers blossomed and died. In their place hung grey fruit, each looking just like an antique watch.

Had Charon bothered to look back while getting the hell out of there, he would have seen crazed, pinkish eyes contemplating him.

This place is like a maze, the Captain thought sourly. In the past hour or so that she had walked through the forest, she fought at least half a dozen of the island's population. The madly giggling Tweedledee and Tweedledum had been the worst. She put the image of their last few seconds alive firmly out of her mind, concentrating on the trail.

The fictives did not even bother to hide their tracks. She looked back at the path she had taken, not at all surprised to find that the land had changed behind her. All in all, there was a good chance of her getting lost in the island forever. And, unlike Alice, she had no kindly White Knight to help her. The equivalent in her life now lay in Subreality Hospital, and it was all her fault.

"Shut up," she whispered to the grieving voice in her head. "I don't have time for this. Just shut up!"

Unexpectedly, she found herself stumbling at the bank of a steaming river. Curious, she bent down and peered into its depths. Carrots and potatoes lay at the bottom, as bits of what looked like chicken meat floated by. Gingerly, she tasted some.

"Too peppery," she commented out loud. At a distance, where the river source should be, she could make out the figure of a human. The person, a woman, brandished a large spoon-like object and -- she squinted to make sure -- an even larger pepper pot.

To think I used to enjoy reading Lewis Carroll's stories, the Captain recollected. I wonder who was the nutcase who created this place... even my Writer isn't this insane.

A large spotted mushroom grew in the middle of the river, obviously meant as a bridge of sorts. There was a large white rabbit sitting on it. Grinning ferally at her, it trilled, "You're late, you're late, you're so very late!"

Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by that, rabbit?"

"Don't be so hostile," it sniffed. "After all, you're the one in trouble, not me. Watch out for questions!" With a twitch of its tail, the creature scampered off, laughing. No, not laughing -- sniggering.

The Captain muttered something about rabbit shish kebab, leaping across to the mushroom. It swayed alarmingly for a moment, but was soon stable enough for her to safely make the crossing.

She landed on a rabbit hole, and kept on landing.

Meanwhile, elsewhere on the island...

"I'm telling you, I can't write drivel like this!"

"Oracle, you know what to do."

"Wait, wait! Even if you telepathically force me to write a story, I'm just not the right type of Writer. I mean, for this story you'll need someone like Mhairie. Jeez, don't be so quick to turn me into a vegetable... sure, it'll get me out of studying, but I won't--"

"Be quiet. Yes, Spar?"

"Doctor, our quarry has fallen through the rabbit hole."

"Excellent."

"Should I pull the Big Bang on her now?"

"Not now, Eros. You will be working in tandem with Oracle."

"Oh yeah... I forgot."

"Save us from Tsukino Usagi reincarnated..."

"Shaddup, Genesis."

"Err... excuse me, who are you guys talking about here?"

"An appropriate question, Ms. M."

"Yasmin, actually. See, technically my last name is not my surname, and anyway in Malaysia--"

"Quiet!"

"Who are you?"

The Captain was dragged back into consciousness by the solemn question, finding herself lying on a rather nice turf. She raised herself groggily to her knees, looking around in confusion.

Three pairs of eyes looked back at her.

"Who are you?"

"You're caterpillars... Hades, I've finally lost it..." Suspicion suddenly flooded her mind, clearing away the last of the cobwebs. "Wait a minute, where am I, and who are you?"

The third green face gazed impassively at her. "Who are you?" it intoned contemptuously.

She ignored the trio. I must still be on the island, she thought, noting the rose bushes. Carefully, she plucked one. It was originally red, but painted white. "A twist in the tale," she murmured.

"Who are you?"

She spun towards the speaker, but the angry words died in her throat. Facing her was the very image of herself, wearing a toga. A laurel crown was perched on her long red hair, which danced slightly in the breeze.

"Who are you?" said a second doppelganger. This one wore grimy battle fatigues, and carried a bayonet. She looked coolly at the Muse, her eyes dead and impersonal.

Yet another spoke up, "Who are you?" Her clothing matched the Captain's perfectly, down to a small tear on the left knee. She smirked, enjoying the uncertainty on the Muse's face.

"It doesn't matter," said the Captain. Hardening her voice, she commanded, "Move aside, or I'll make you."

"My, how violent you are," chorused the three. Their faces and bodies turned fluid, morphing into a new likeness. This one was slightly taller, darker of skin and more muscular.

"All the better to murder with?" said Tristram's voice, issued from Tristram's lips. His brown eyes regarded her with gleeful malice, a far cry from the gentle warmth that suffused the original's. As one, the three doppelgangers accused, "You killed me."

"No..." She backed away, snarling. "The doctor said you will live!"

"Without the use of my legs? Some life."

If they were expecting her to break down in angst, they were dead wrong. The Captain drew her sword, not wasting time to bandy words, and with a powerful slash decapitated the trio. There was only barely enough time for a surprised expression to cross their faces before the heads tumbled to the grass, followed by their bodies.

"Falcon would never say something like that," she spat. Bringing her sword down, she buried the tip of its blade in the ground. "Play with my mind, will you? You can come out now, you little cowards. I know this is just an illusion."

The landscape around her shimmered and disappeared, revealing a large cavern. A group of people, one obviously a mutant, stood with their backs to a tied and gagged Yasmin. The Writer stared wide-eyed at her Muse, and mumbled something which might have been, "Get me out of here!"

A nasty look twisted the face of one of the group, a tall pale-skinned woman. Purple-black feathered wings cloaked her figure, reminding the Muse unpleasantly of Sinister. The older man standing next to her somewhat resembled Tristram, and her heart gave a painful wrench. But she could discern the dementia in his eyes, present in all of the fictives. Even the last teacher, an easygoing Filipino-Chinese woman, was a danger now. As were the remaining two students, a sable-haired Indian girl and a lanky boy.

"I don't suppose diplomacy could solve our problem," the Captain offered, diffidence cloaking her words.

Dr Chasseur smiled coldly. "Your cooperation would be a start."

"Like hell."

"A pity. Do you really think that you could defeat our combined might?"

The Muse raised an eyebrow. "I have to. There's no one else." She moved to a guard position, and they eyed her warily. "You asked me who I am. The answer, milady, is that I'm a Muse, and I'm royally pissed."

She charged.

Oracle immediately threw up a telekinetic shield, halting her advance. The Captain barely paused. She reached for a microbomb borrowed from an obliging Batman, and threw it at the cavern wall nearest to the telepath.

The ensuing explosion and flying rocks distracted the Asian woman enough for her to lose the shield, allowing the Muse to move in. She threw a dart, its tip dipped in the strongest sedative she could find. It wouldn't kill the telepath, but would incapacitate her long enough for her to be removed out of equation. Oracle swayed, one hand going to her arm where the dart stuck out like a quill. With a soft sigh, she fainted.

Yelling a battle cry, the Captain meanwhile faced off against Spar, who wielded a nasty-looking pike. He was partnered by Chasseur, and she immediately saw their weakness: in open space, the mutant could use her wings to her advantage, but in a cave they were more of a hindrance. The last thought was punctuated by a slash of the woman's talons, drawing blood from the Captain's side.

She gasped with pain, and not only from long, parallel cuts. The older wound at her back opened again, and she could feel blood seeping through her flightsuit. I have to end this soon if I'm going to survive, she thought dimly as Spar smashed the handle of his pike against her stomach, sending her flying to the floor.

"Giving up?" taunted the winged mutant.

Yes, whispered part of her mind. Horrified, she struggled to her feet, keeping the sword between her and the mutants. The Captain caught Eros' intent stare, and immediately realized that the empath was trying to manipulate her. Genesis was busy with Oracle, trying to neutralize the sedative with his mutant power.

Not on your life, kids.

She feinted, lobbing another bomb at the two adults. As she hoped, Eros' eyes automatically tracked the airborne object, making it easy for her to aim a sedative dart at the teenager. Eros immediately collapsed, and she allowed herself a slight smile of satisfaction.

Chasseur and Spar were preoccupied with escaping from the bomb's blast radius, allowing the Captain a few precious seconds to breathe -- and plan. Her whole body ached. The bombs might have worked great as a distraction, but she herself could not escape its effects. And the cave would not stand another blast, if she was any judge.

Slipping a small, custom-made knife in a special compartment up her sleeve, she struck at the duo with renewed vigour. They fell back under her ferocious assault, the Muse silently thanking the entire Olympian pantheon for the fact that Yasmin never bothered to define the strength of their offensive capabilities.

Spar lunged, his pike cutting open her sleeve. This was the moment she had been waiting for. Fast as lightning, she brought out the knife and stabbed him. Sure enough, his "near-invulnerability" was just that -- his skin was much stronger than a normal human's, but nowhere near Rogue's level. The diamond-tipped knife broke through his skin, gouging the flesh.

He swore, a Shakespearean insult the Muse had not heard for a long time. Grinning for the first time since Tristram was injured, she dropped the knife and shot the attacking Chasseur with her Sig Sauer, turning the woman into a napping pigeon.

The older man was on his knees, grasping his injured arm. "What substance did you put on the knife?" he asked weakly. "Sedatives?"

"A non-fatal poison, actually. I wasn't sure if sedatives work on you." She strode towards the very surprised Yasmin, looking down scornfully at the defiant boy who stood in her way. "What do you want?"

His hazel eyes glared at her through tears of defeat. "You ruined everything!" he shrieked. "We could have been written by now, alive like all the other fictives!"

The Captain picked up a glowing orb, one of the ideas they had stolen. She nearly laughed out loud. "This is how you would have her write you? As part of an unconvincing erotica?"

Genesis flushed, but did not back down.

"Think with your brains for once and get a clue, boy. If she had written all of you into a story like this, you would be a laughingstock across Subreality. Decried in OTL and ACFF. Flamed by the less tactful. Become MiSTing fodder to countless readers and writers who despise you. I can understand your desire to live, but is that how you want to be remembered?"

"If she had written our story in the first place..." Spar muttered.

She turned to face him, eyes ablaze with anger. "Don't you start, mister. Your obsessive quest nearly cost me a dear friend, not to mention your own bloody Writer over there." The Captain gritted her teeth. "Can't you find comfort in the thought that the building blocks she used for you have become foundation for other stories? She never wrote your story and -- I won't lie to you -- never will, but she never forgot you."

She pointed to the still unconscious Chasseur. "Part of her lives on, reincarnated in an incomplete 'Gargoyles' fanfic. As do you, Spar. Yasmin also took a large part of Oracle and used it in a self-insertion story to answer Kielle's challenge. The rest of you will be taken apart and used in other stories, if you haven't already." The Captain placed a hand on Genesis' shoulder. "It may seem a poor substitute for having a story of your own, but you have given birth to more stories than you realize."

"Do we have any other choice?" the boy asked in a small voice.

It was Spar who answered. "No... I don't think we do."

"He's right," she agreed. "I'm sorry, kid."

In the ensuing heavy silence, the redhead cut Yasmin's bonds. She quickly forestalled the stream of questions and comments by handing a pen and a notepad to the Writer. Hesitating slightly, she added the lyre.

"Could you write them into a story idea again?" she asked. "Only this time... make it special. For their sake."

The Writer could only nod, and bent to the task. Minutes later, without any glitter or bang, the fictives disappeared. Yasmin now held a delicate glass lyre, larger than the replica which it once was.

"Beautiful," murmured the Captain. "But if it's made of glass, how can you play it?"

"You can't."

Their eyes met, and understanding dawned on the Muse.

"I see." After a second's deliberation, she added, "You'd better write us straight to beach, boss lady. I... I'm sure you'll want to get back quickly."

Yasmin paused halfway through a sentence. "I heard that part about your friend," she said quietly. "I'm sorry."

The Captain blinked back tears. "He had a long and fruitful life. Maybe this is his chance for a new one."

Silvery motes sparkled in the cave, and they vanished.

PART EIGHT

The Muse stood before her former mentor, gun raised and ready to be fired.

Her friend was very lucky, Strange had said, in a voice full of professional sympathy. "The incomplete spinal cord injury to his lumbar vertebrate is such that we expect him to recover some degree of mobility," the doctor explained further, slightly crestfallen when her face remained stony.

What she thought then was that the man she called friend and mentor would never run again. He would never again challenge her to the silly duels they enjoyed. Tristram always looked so alive during those sessions, eyes sparkling as they fought beneath the trees in the Collegium's gardens...

If she shot him, he would be cured.

If she shot him, he would be confined to this place.

The precious fraction of Writer power her Sig Sauer held had no effect beyond the borders of Subreality.

Would it even work on a Muse?

Would he want to be whole only in Subreality?

Yes, whispered part of her mind.

To shoot him, to heal him, would be an unethical use of the power her Writer had granted her.

To not shoot him, to refuse to heal him, would be a betrayal of everything she ever believed about friendship and love.

She closed her eyes, lowering her arm.

There must be another way.

"You can't do this!"

Calliope leaned back in her chair, looking at the enraged redhead over steepled fingers. "Yes, I can. I am the Queen, Captain, and it is well within my jurisdiction."

She bristled, refusing to show the devastating grief she felt inside. "Why did you refuse to grant my request, your Highness?"

"Tristram made a choice, and he must accept the consequences of that choice. If I were to use my power to heal him, what would it say to the rest of the Muses? I must not encourage irresponsibility and I can't play favours, as you very well know."

"You cold-hearted bit--"

"Remember who you're speaking to," the Queen snapped. "If it's any comfort to you, the doctors assured me that he is only partially paralysed. He won't be able to move unaided, but he won't be helpless either." She rose, walking towards the Captain. "I know that you are feeling distraught and out of sorts at the present, and I sympathize. But you must distance yourself, child. Muses cannot afford to become too personally involved."

"This is your sympathy?!" the Captain snarled. Her blue eyes burned with hellfire, and only iron control prevented her from punching the imperious blonde. "My advice to you, Calliope, if you can find a taxidermist willing to do it for you, is to stuff your "sympathy" up your arse."

As she stormed out of the office, Calliope called out icily, "I know what you're planning to do, Captain, and it won't work! This I swear."

She kept on walking.

In the cool gardens of the Imagination Collegium, despair and pain finally overtook her. She fell to her knees, leaning her head against a willow tree. Tears trickled from her tightly-closed eyes, to splash silently on the soft grass.

"Light the candle, John
The daylight has almost gone
The birds have sung their last
The bells call all to Mass
Sit here by my side
For the night is very long
There's something I must tell
Before I pass along..."

"Someday, I really must make an effort to understand your fascination with Loreena McKennitt," said a wry voice at the door.

Tristram tore his eyes away from his notes, face lighting up with a smile. "Fancy meeting you here, Iphianassa," he teased.

"Recycling Claremont's dialogue now?" she ribbed back, taking a seat beside his bed. "Have you read my report?"

He picked up a piece of paper, waving it at her. "Yes. Very fascinating... and I noticed it seems as if you've grown even more concise over the years."

"Don't rejoice too soon," the Captain grimaced. "My Writer has a bad influence on me." She nodded at the sheaf of papers littering his bed. "Have you found any correlation between the fictives and the Forgotten Ones?"

"This is purely speculative, of course, but I think I have," he affirmed cautiously. "Tell me, Iphy, what's the main difference between the two?"

She frowned. "Basically, the Forgotten Ones were actually written, even though they were abandoned later. The rogues, on the other hand, weren't."

"Right," he nodded. "I couldn't explain the similar manifestation of behaviour either, considering the variable, until I read this part." He pointed to a passage in her report, asking, "Could you please read it?"

"Various components of the idea," she read, "was funneled off into other stories. Although as a whole it was never written into a story, the used parts were developed and refined..." She stopped. "Am I thinking what you're thinking?"

Tristram nodded, saying, "Exactly. While they were never written into real fictives, the usage of the story idea gave them "life", or at least a facsimile of one."

He sighed. "If the abandoned fictives in Subreality could be warped into what they are now, what more a group of unwritten fictives forced into suspended animation even as they grew? Neither lifeless nor truly alive, it's no surprise they went mad. Couple that with envy and frustration, and everything could have ended in blood."

"It did," she stated flatly, "and it was all my fault."

"I've said it before and I'll say it again: you aren't to blame," he protested wearily. "You couldn't have foreseen what happened. You can't. You aren't the Midnighter, Iphy." His hand reached out for her, and she grasped it like a lifeline. "I take responsibility for my own actions, and I wouldn't ask it of you or anyone else."

"That's what Calliope said you should," she said bitterly. "It's what I keep telling myself. But I can't quite bring myself to believe it, Falc. Maybe I don't want to... maybe part of me wants to flagellate myself. I don't know!" She pressed the back of his hand against her cheek, not quite knowing whether it was to comfort him, or her. "Zeus, I'm pathetic."

"Iphy, I'm not dead, you know," he told her gently. "Neither am I a crippled old man fated to waste away the rest of his life in regret." Tristram stroked her jaw, tilting it down so he could look into her eyes. "Ambrosia came by earlier, and offered me a part-time teaching job. I'm officially on reserve status, but that's just ink and paper."

"Are you going to take it?"

"Will I see you more often?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "At the rate my Writer is sitting down on her butt and doing everything except writing... I would say yes."

"Good. You see to the rose garden and I'll pick the china patterns."

"Hey!" she exclaimed indignantly, swatting the chuckling Tristram with her report. "Just like a man to leave a woman to do the dirty work. I'm disappointed in you, mentor."

"At this point, I think I should point out that your taste in dinnerware leaves much to be desired," he baited her.

"I don't even have any, Falc," she pointed out.

"See?" They shared a laugh, the emotions underlying the sound warming the sterile room.

The Captain stopped laughing, casting a long look at his recumbent figure. "This won't make everything all right," she said soberly.

"I know." He smiled softly at her. "But it's a start, isn't it?"