This is a work of fiction using several characters and situations that
don't belong to me. Unless some kind soul decides to bestow a small fortune
upon me after reading this, I doubt I'll get any money out of it - plus I've
got three student loans, a graduate loan and an overdraft to pay off so
there's no point in trying to sue me. Detailed disclaimers about all
characters involved will be posted at the end, so as not to spoil any
surprises =)

    Previous chapters of this story are being archived by Luba Kmetyk on her
page at http://home.att.net/~lubakmetyk, along with a hell of a lot of other
good stuff. They will be archived on my home page, but I'm in the process of
moving it due to geocities being a bunch of money-grabbing w*nkers...

    Feedback gratefully accepted at ian@wire.co.uk. Archivists, feel free to
grab and copy as long as you send me a mail to let me know.

    Enjoy! 

    Phil


        Subreality Cafe: Writers Night 2/5

        Phil Foster


      *                *                *

    "Right, that's a JD and coke, a bottle of Bud, a diet coke, a strawberry
soda and a pint of Guiness, cheers," Craig said, ordering the next round. He
turned to Sion who was waiting at the bar with him.

    "So how's things going with you, then?"

    "Pretty much same as usual," the dark-haired Welshman replied. "Y'know,
bollocksing around at Uni, wasting all my cash on beer. The usual."

    Craig leaned up against the bar and turned to look round the cafe.
"Don't sound too bad." He looked back at Sion. "So what happened about that
thing between you and... aw heck, what was her name? Rhiannon?"

    Sion grimaced at the memory. "Messy," he said. 

    "Ah. Sorry to hear that, mate. That bad?"

    "That bad," Sion replied. "I'm thinking of scribbling out a Forge/Ororo
fanfic where Forge tells her exactly what he thinks of her. That's how bad."

    Craig paused for a moment and turned round to the Bartender. "Can I have
two whiskies with that, mate?"

    A couple of minutes and two whiskies later they staggered back to the
table, carrying the various drinks with them.

    "So, who's next?" Naomi asked.

    "Well, we might as well keep going round in the circle," Amanda replied.
"So Sion? Your turn next."

    "Yeah, okay." He sat down and drank a large mouthful of the black liquid
in his glass, leaving a moustache of froth on his lip. "Well there's one
idea I had recently," he said, wiping the froth away. "It was gonna be a
straight Subreality Cafe piece, but it kinda went weird. Anyway, it's all
told from the Bartender's point of view, so it's in first person." He
settled down, resting his pint comfortably on the arm of his chair.

                *            *                *

    "They always say you hear some strange stories working behind a bar. And
of all the bars there are to work behind this has got to be one of the
strangest going. I mean, I've worked in some odd places before; Harry's
Hideaway, a small pub in Scotland, and I even spent a really weird three
weeks cleaning glasses at the Inn At the End of the World. But this place
beats the lot for oddness.

    "The worst thing is the shifts. For the first few months I was here I 
had to split shifts with the Manager, and on occasion this sort-of-fictive
called Major Mapleleaf. The roster seems to be pretty sorted now though - I
get most of the shifts and Mapleleaf gets to do the rest, with the Manager
covering if we're both out. The thing that makes this job really strange,
though, is the customers.

    "See, this place is supposed to be for fan-fic characters only. That got
kind of extended to include fic-altered mainstreams, some of whom have
almost nothing to do with their mainline counterparts, and every now and
then a Writer will come by and try to get in. Depending on what night it is,
or what mood the big guy on the door is in they sometimes make it.

    "And then every so often we get someone else. A traveller who's just
wandered past and decides to drop in. I still remember when both John
Constantine and Sting turned up here at the same time. Boy was that a crazy
night...

    "But yeah, as I was saying, we had one of those sorts come in here a few
nights ago. It was a quiet night so I didn't have much to do and was
standing chatting to Elmo and John Logan at one end of the bar.

    "'I still think you're better off than me,' Logan said, draining one of
the many pints he'd had already.

    "'Ah, jealousy does not become you, friend John,' the large red-haired
man beside him replied. 'Also it is unfounded. Thou hast far more versions
written than I shall ever have, notwithstanding that most of them are still
being written. Whereas I am left with few Writers, many of whom have not
touched my story in far too long.'

    "'Yeah, but none of them other versions are me, are they?' the short man
replied. 'Sure there's stories about the old Logan, the feral Wolverine,
Patch an' all the rest. But who else writes stuff about John Logan? An' now
Falstaff's got into all that GenX an' Excalibur Arleccino stuff - or 
whatever it's called - there ain't no way I'm gettin' another shot at it 
more than once in a blue moon.'

    "'Ever thought of getting another Writer?' I asked, polishing a glass.

    "'It's not as easy as it sounds, bub,' he replied. 'Latching on to
another Writer can be a hell of a lot of work. Y'gotta keep goin' on at them
all the time, tryin' ta work your way into their heads without lettin' them
know what yer up to. Ain't easy, I tell ya.'

    "I poured him another drink in commiseration. At that moment the door
opened again, letting in another draft of cold air. I often wonder how the
Bouncer manages to stand outside all night - it can get pretty cold in these
parts of Subreality sometimes.

    "I didn't recognise the newcomer who stepped through the door. He was
large, with red hair tied back in a pony tail and signs of not having shaved
in a few days. Dressed in casual clothes and hiking boots he carried the
traditional mark of a traveller - his possesions were bundled into a
handkerchief tied to the end of a long stick which he held over his
shoulder.

    "As he stood and looked around the cafe I tried looking at him properly,
to see what sort of person he was. He didn't have the right look for a
normal fanfic - far to real to be anything other than mainstream. And yet
there was something not quite normal about him, almost as if he had a touch
of Writer in him.

    "He came over to the bar and put his stick down on one of the stools.
'Good afternoon,' he said.

    "'Afternoon,' I replied. 'What can I get you?'

    "He looked around at the various drinks displayed at the bar, evidently
trying to make up his mind. 'I'll have one of the Cook's famous steak meals,
and a pint of Guiness to wash it down with, I think.'

    "'Certainly, sir,' I replied, and turned towards the Cook's hatch. I
knocked quickly and seconds later the hatch flew up and out shot a plate
full of food. I thought for a moment. The Cook was good, but not this good.
I knocked on the hatch again and yelled a request. 'Crocodile sandwich, and 
make it sna...' The hatch shot up again. I looked at the sandwich. Right.

    "I pulled open the hatch and stuck my head through, expecting trouble. I
was right. Instead of the usual Cook, the kitchen was being run by a dark
figure wearing a large cape. A scythe was propped up against the wall in the
corner, and where the figure moved I could see bone white flashes under the
sleeves and hood. I sighed.

    "'Oy, you!' The figure stopped and turned to me. 'Yes you! Pick up your
scythe and get back to your place!' With hunched shoulders, which this
figure had the perfect build for, he picked up his scythe and trooped out
the door, scratching the head of a cat on the way. Typical. The Pratchett
Mended Drum must be overflowing again. I made a note to warn the Bouncer in
case a Luggage or two turned up.

    "I turned back to the bar and passed the plate over to the traveller,
pouring out his pint at the same time. He'd started talking to Logan and
Elmo at this point so I went over to join the conversation.

    "'A fine place you have here,' he was saying to Elmo as I passed his 
pint over.

    "'Aye, in it's own way. Myself, I have spent too much time in here and
find it little short of tedious now.'

    "'Things will change,' the traveller said. 'They always do.' He 
swallowed a large mouthful of the Guiness and looked at the glass in his
hand. 'Hmm. Good Guiness, that's a rarity these days.'

    "'You like Guiness?' Logan asked conversationally.

    "'I like anything that's well created,' the traveller replied. Then he
grinned. 'Although I admit that a good pint of Guiness holds special favour
with me.'

    "'More of a lager drinker, myself.'

    "'Oh aye?' the traveller replied. 'I tried making lager myself once.
Never really got the hang of it though...'

    "'So how did you find this place, then?' Logan asked. 'It ain't exactly
marked on the map.'

    "'I suppose that depends on which map you're looking at,' the traveller
replied. 'At the moment I'm not following any map. I'm just walking wherever
my feet take me.'

    "'Your feet must take you to some very far places if they were strong
enough to bring you here, my friend,' said Elmo.

    "'Oh I've been around a while,' the traveller replied. 'It's been a long
time since I came past here, though.'

    "'You've been here before?' Logan asked. 'Can't say I recognise you.'

    "'No. It was long before you were here.'

    "Logan sniffed the air for a moment. The smell of the raw steak was
starting to make him hungry. 'Unlikely, bub. Elmo an' me were some of the
first in this place.'

    "'Oh, I don't mean this place as it is now. No, I mean this place as it
was of old.'

    "'You must be mistaking this place for somewhere else, friend,' said
Elmo. 'The Subreality Cafe is not yet past it's half a decade.'

    "'In it's current incarnation, maybe,' the traveller replied. 'But this
part of Subreality goes back a lot further than you might think.'

    "'I don't get ya,' Logan said, reaching into his pocket for the money to
buy a meal.

    "'Fan fiction's been around for a long time, in one form or another,'
the traveller replied. He finished his meal, nodded his thanks to me and
settled down to explain further. 'Where do you think James Bond goes, when
he's in between books? Or Sherlock Holmes? The lineage of the Subreality
Cafe traces back a long time.'

    "'Think of some of the older stories. Tales told in the village late at
night, or stories of heros and adventure told by the elders of the tribe to
the young men. Think of the girl who hears the old fairy tales and dreams of
princes and unicorns, castles and witches. Think of the young Viking boy
hearing the legends of Thor, who lies awake at night inventing wild tales of
adventure for the Asgardian Hero.'

    "'Hold on a minnit,' said Logan. 'That ain't exactly fanfic though, is
it?' I passed him his meal and interjected.

    "'I think it is,' I said. 'I mean, any time anyone thinks up a story 
that uses characters from other stories that's fan fiction, isn't it?' The
traveller nodded his agreement, a slight smile on his face. 'Even if it
isn't written down, the important thing is that the idea is there in
someone's head. The character gets to live some of their life through
someone else.'

    "'Exactly,' the traveller agreed. 'The character gets to live on through
someone else's tales.' He drained the last of his glass and nodded my way,
indicating a re-fill. 'Let me tell you a story of someone I once knew. 
Someone who has spent far longer in this place than any you see around 
you...

                *                *            *

    Who am I?

    I have been many things, my friend, many people in many places. I
have been friend and foe, angel and demon, hero, villain and no-one. But
for now I am simply an archer, waiting in this tavern for the next time I
am needed.

    It is strange how some things endure so much, yet others come and go
with no more significance than the clouds across the moon. My bow and arrow
have been with me always, yet my name has changed countless times. Is it not
strange that something so simple as a weapon should be so important, yet a
thing as powerful as a name can be cast aside like the fleshless bones of a
finished meal?

    I should tell you of my life, yet I no longer remember it. I can no
longer distinguish that which is true from that which is fiction. Perhaps
there is no difference any longer...

    So instead I shall tell you of my death.

    The stories which surround my death are many, and perhaps you know them
already. Do you recollect the tale of a young man dying in a castle? A
brave hero who fought against the tyranny of his day, championed those who
could not champion themselves? A young man who with his last strength shot
an arrow from his bow, to be buried wherever it would land? Aye, perhaps you
do, and that is indeed one truth of my death. There have been others.

    I have died old and grey, surrounded by family and friends. I have
died alone in the cold, with no witness to my passing. I have died in the
arms of my beloved Maid Marion, her tears wetting my cheeks as I breathed
my last. I have died many deaths, many times over.

    Yet the tale that has never been told is the tale we all wish to know
more than any other. The tale I will tell you is the tale which has held 
true over all this time, and all the lives I have lead. It is the tale of 
what happens after my death.

    There is not a living person who has not considered what we see once
we pass from this realm. Whether you believe in heaven and hell, or the
judgement of Allah, or the blessed peace of nirvana it is a subject to which
all minds turn themselves to eventually. And like all others, I had 
considered it many many times. I had, on some occasions, wished for a heaven
to go to, where I would live in perfect happiness with the God I could not
always see in life. I had sometimes wished for life to continue, for things
to stay as they were only without the dark cloud of death to ride over us.
I had, when weary of the constant struggle, wished for nothing more than
oblivion and the endless peace of darkness.

    I had never in my wildest imaginings thought that I might see what I
did see.

    I could say she was a beautiful lady. I could say she was the most
perfect thing I could have dreamed of. I could say she was the ending of all
things, and in that ending gave meaning to all that had gone before. But I 
know all these are only part of what she was, only the parts of myself I 
could see reflected in her. She was simply the ending.

    And she smiled at me, and said hello. And in her smile all the worries
and petty hatreds of my life evaporated, now irrelevant in the face of that
which comes to us all. I saw my life, everything I had ever dreamed and
hoped and felt, all of it equal when the story ends. Nothing has any value
when all things are equal. Nothing can be greater than anything else in the
face of oblivion.

    And yet, conversely, that was what gave my life meaning. The things we 
do eonly have the value we give them, and that is the only value things ever
need. In her eyes I saw meaning. I saw the meaning my life had for me, 
echoed in the words she said. I saw peace, and I saw love.

    I wanted to go with her then, more than anything I ever wanted before.
I wanted my life to end so that it would become complete and therefore have
value. I wanted to take her hand and follow her into the realms she hid 
within her. But she would not let me.

    "It's not over for you yet, Robin," she said. "There's someone else
who wants to see you."

    "But how can it not be over?" I replied. "I know who you are. I know
what you mean to me. Why can I not go with you?"

    "You are coming with me," she replied. "Well, in a sense. It's just
that something of you is being left behind for a while, that's all."

    "But for how long? Am I to stay here forever?"

    "Forever? Nothing lasts forever, Robin. You know that." She turned
and waved. "Bye now. And give my love to my brother, would you?"

    And she was gone, and all around me was darkness - I felt nothing except
the desire for her to come back and take me with her. But I knew she 
wouldn't.

    After a while it began to feel warm and comfortable, like the softness 
of a bed deep in the pit of the night. It was strange - I had not wanted to
stay, yet after a time I began to feel comfortable wrapped up in that 
darkness, safe and warm in the embrace of...of...of I do not know what.

    I felt my mind surround me, half remembered memories flickering like
ghost images across my vision, colliding and combining in the void. Stories
and dreams surrounded me, defined me, reminded me of who I was. And there 
were two stars in the blackness, faint and distant like the memory of a 
dream upon waking.

    And as I watched the darkness grew, taking shape out of the emptiness,
creating form out of the formlessness. I was reminded of the stories I
shared with my friends late into the night, when we would sit around the
fire and drink to keep each other company. Of how those stories would be
told and re-told over and over again, changing greatly in detail yet
remaining the same in the ways that mattered.

    And there infront of me the stories took form. Two stars lay deep in
his eyes, flashing and fading like the half-remembered echoes of nightmares
in the morning. Flickering dreams surrounding him like a cloak, without form
or texture, yet with power in their unreality to shape the lives of men.
In his limbs I saw the knowledge of old stories, their meaning echoing down
the generations to give shape to our lives.

    And he spoke to me.

    "Robin of the Green, your place is with me. Come."

    And I knew then what part of me she had left behind. My story. My story
still needed to be heard.

    I went with him as I could not go with her, and my life began 
again. And again. And again. I became a hero, struggling valiantly
against the evil Sheriff of Nottingham. I became a villain, a name used to
scare  little children late in the night. I became a friend to all those
who needed me, to live in their dreams as they told themselves tales to
keep away the darkness.

    I was Robin of Sherwood, and Robin of the Green, and Roy Harper.
I was Clint Barton, who dressed in purple and took the title Hawkeye to 
fight alongside heros of the time, to fall in love and marry and see my 
wife die before me. I was Connor Hawke, reluctant hero and Zen buddhist, 
living my life in the shadow of those around me.

    And I sit here now in this tavern, a resting place on my journey. And
I wonder who I will become next.

                *                *              *

    "'All right, bub. So this place has been around f'r a while,' said Logan
between mouthfuls of raw steak. 'But there's still a big difference between
the likes of us an' the likes of Robin Hood.'

    "'Do you think so?' the traveller asked. 'Oh there are changes. This
place has changed much over time.' He grinned. 'But haven't you noticed no
matter how much things change, the important things always stay the same?'

    "'You've lost me, bub.'

    "'What I mean is,' the traveller explained, 'is that although some of
the outside trappings might have changed pretty dramatically, the underlying
ideas always come back again. Fan fiction has been around in one form or
another for a very long time. It's a part of the way people respond to
stories, a part of the way they understand what they've heard. The lineage
of the Subreality Cafe traces back a long time.'

    "'After all,' he said, looking at me. 'It's hardly as if this is the
only place like it around, is it?' And with that last enigmatic statement he
bade his farewells and walked out the door, whistling tunelessly as he
went."

-- 

        **********************************
           Phil Foster | ian@wire.co.uk
            "Moines a pint a scrumpy!"
        http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/7746
        **********************************