Subject: [OTL]: (SC-ish) Two Characters In Search Of An Author Date: Thu, 24 Feb 2000 23:19:08 -0800 From: Amanda Sichter Whimsy. Whimsy for Luba. Disclaimer: Marvel don't deserve them. Kielle definitely deserves credit for Subreality Cafe, though. Two Characters In Search Of An Author Two people sit in a room. Literary convention demands that these two people are fighting or arguing or trapped in an emotional battle or in some other form of conflict that will introduce a certain tension to capture the attention of the reader. However, this is not a story enslaved by literary convention, so the two people are, in fact, quietly sitting on opposite sides of the table and simply enjoying each other's company. She is not beautiful - conventionally pretty, maybe, a certain girl-next-door charm with thick brown hair and a slender dancer's body. Her most attractive feature is the fierce and joyful intelligence that burns in her dark brown eyes. In some other tale she may be a rebellious teenager, a bitch-queen, a piece of fragile emotional flotsam or possibly a heroine saving the world but here she is simply a young woman who is currently very happy. He teeters on the edge of handsome - a strong and slender body, taut with the muscles of someone skilled in unarmed combat. His hair is dark and flops over his forehead, framing a face with strong, regular features. His eyes, a dark cerulean blue, are also bright with intelligence and joy. He wears a frown almost perpetually (which should mark him out as a fighter or a bully or an abuser or even a wounded cynic) but it is possible to see, if you look closely enough, that a deep happiness burns within him - that he is a person who grasps life and almost drowns in the wonder that it shows him. It is also possible to see, if you watch carefully, that these two people are in love. She is drinking coffee, sipping it carefully, and her eyes watch him from over the rim of the cup and delight in the sight of his face. Her lips are curved in an almost-permanent half-smile. He is pretending to read a paper but his eyes don't do more than glance at a line of text before he is looking up again, his bright eyes devouring the sight of her face, his attention fixed only on her. Listening to their conversation doesn't do a lot to enlighten the reader about their current status, but for once this story shall succumb to the dictates of narrative and include some dialogue. 'They've de-aged me again,' she is saying. 'I've gone back to being barely sixteen again.' The look he gives her is incredulous at first and then softens with the joy of watching her. 'So wot, I'm into statutory rape now?' he asks. 'Only in some states,' she responds primly and takes another sip. 'In case you don't remember, when I was in Britain I was over eighteen. More than legal. Thank goodness,' she adds, with a tiny lascivious smile that almost makes him blush. 'Bloody right,' he responds. 'The amount of times we've shagged - and the times we went to the pub. So not only am I a cradle-snatcher I also allow juveniles to illegally consume alcohol. At least Moira had the Legacy virus to excuse her from blame. I'm just a dirty old man.' 'And then some,' she grins. 'It's not like I really care,' she adds. 'The only thing that pisses me is they're trying to get me back with the Tin-man again. And trying to pretend I've always loved him.' He grumbles into his paper for a moment but she can see that he is hurt by the desolate curve of his body. 'Do you?' he asks at last, refusing to meet her eyes. Her hand steals out, touches his gently, making him look up and into her eyes. 'Never,' she says firmly. 'Only you,' she says. 'Only ever you.' The house they are in may be in Subreality, though the somewhat fluid nature of that particular plane of reality makes this somewhat uncertain. It is not the CafT, however, but a small place they have carved out through sheer will and keep stable simply by holding the image of it so firmly in their hearts that it cannot change. It may cease to exist when they are both out of Subreality but neither of them are sure about that. All they know is that, when they are free, they come back and they are here, always here, always together. It is obvious it is their place. Small touches in the kitchen they are currently occupying are enough to tell you that. A Star of David hangs on one wall and a packet of cigarettes has been carelessly left on the corner of the kitchen bench. She has dismembered a computer on the workbench and circuits and chips scatter across it. It is his turn to do the washing-up, which is why the sink is stacked high with dirty dishes. On the fridge pictures of the two of them are held by magnets, happy pictures, holiday pictures and they are always smiling. But he is speaking again. 'Do they ever read their own books?' he asks her. She shakes her head, a little sadly. 'I don't think so,' she responds. 'Do you remember,' she starts and then falters, stops. 'Do I remember wot?' he asks gently. 'When we first met?' she asks. He nods, his eyes bright with the memory, a sudden and brilliant smile on his face. 'Forever,' he says. 'When I saw you and then - that first time, after Dream Nails. I'll never forget,' he says. 'Never,' and his voice is obviously pitched to reassure her. 'Neither will I,' she says fiercely and he reaches out to grasp her hand, hold it, comfort her. They have both seen what happens to others when their memories are changed. She knows one who remembers the Massacre and grieves for his role in it, when she was there and knows that he was not. He has seen one in Subreality who wanders, lost, merged with another, suddenly rendered half a man and fading already as he is forgotten so quickly by the others, dying almost unmourned. They both know about the ghosts, the forgotten ones, who lived vibrant lives for such a short time and then faded out of sight and memory. 'I can't believe they don't see it,' she says. 'They are the ones who made us, who let me see you and yet they try so hard to break us up. Didn't they see us when we met? Didn't they see how right we were? Don't they know true love when they see it?' She is almost crying now and his grip on her hand tightens. 'They've forgotten,' he says. 'We need an author who remembers us, but they change all the time. Maybe, one day, they will remember.' 'But it doesn't make sense,' she half-wails. 'I turned sixteen in the Cross-Time Caper and since then I've aged only a few weeks? It's been years. It doesn't make sense.' 'I know.' His laugh is grim. 'It's not like I don't know how ludicrous it is. You've aged a week since you left me and I've managed to lose an eye in Russia and heal from it fully. Thank goodness they let us escape to here.' They have some power here, some small power of will that allows them some control over their form and circumstances, and so both bright blue eyes regard her carefully. 'Yes,' she responds, breathily thankful and suddenly she is sliding through the table until she can curl on his lap and burrow into his arms. 'I don't ever want to lose you,' she whispers. 'You won't,' he promises, his voice fierce with conviction. 'How do you know?' she says. 'What if they change us again?' 'There are others,' he says, his arms sliding tight around her. 'You've seen them in the CafT - all the ones the other authors write, those of us who are together and happy and in love. Every time one of those gets brought into being it makes us a little bit stronger. We're remembered and as long as they remember we can always be together.' She looks up at him, her eyes bright, a slight frown marring her brow. 'They will remember?' she asks. 'They will,' he promises fervently and his mouth descends down on hers. Everyone is taught that every story, each essay, all things, should have a beginning, a middle and an end. This story is not a slave to those literary conventions either. This is not an ending. We do not know if he keeps her promise to her. We will never find out if they do live happily ever after or if they will be destroyed. All we are doing is leaving the couple now, leaving them curled in each other's arms, entwined, needing each other. And we remember. The End Amanda wolf@ozdocs.net.au "How disturbing! no matter where I am or what I'm doing, I'm always missing something Somewhere else" (ashley brilliant)