PPC, Az & Boston, Mission 2: Independence.
Author: Creepy666Anubis
Rating: T
Obligatory linkage: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5932566/1/Independence#
Sporked by: dawnbluewings , as Agents Az and Boston
Notes: Suishness, OOCness, Just Sort Of Blah.
Disclaimer: I do not Own the PPC. I do not own the character in this Fic, nor the Fic I have sporked. I own Az, Boston, and Farawen. That's about it. I was given Permission to write for the PPC in June of 2009.
A&B Mission 2 - Independence.
Stumbling back into their RC, mostly drunk on Bleepka and trailing various minis, Agents Azrael and Boston of the Protectors of the Plot Continuum were greeted by a very nondescript man in a business suit, wearing sunglasses and carrying a clipboard.
Az, whose five years as Agent had made her very wary of strange men baring clipboards, approached first, attempting to stand as straight as she could, and not fall over. “Yes?”
The man smiled, what a
ppeared to be an attempt at a friendly smile, and extended the clipboard, with a pen. “Agent Amira Azrael Sharbat Typon? Sign here, please.”
“What is it?” Az eyed the paper with distrust.
“A waiver, stating that the fic you just dealt with featured cruel and unusual treatment of Minis, to which end the minis in question were removed upon generation and transported immediately to the Adoption Agency, and Crash Dummies placed in their respective roles. Did you happen to remember to secure the Crash Dummies?”
Az blinked, shook her head to clear it, and signed the paper.
“Thank you,” said the man, taking back the clipboard, and extending a hand to Rivandall. “come with me, Rivandall. I’ll get you back to mommy…” All of the brisk efficiency of his voice was gone, replaced by cooing syrupiness at the Mini.
When the pair had gone, Az turned back to her partner.
“Crash Dummy?” asked Boston, looking just as dazed as Az felt.
“It means that we’re in trouble,” said Az, and closed her eyes, hoping against -
[BEEEEEEEEEEEP!]
Az lurched to the console, and hit the Acknowledgement button. A new Fic began scrolling down the display. “Cadfael? That’s a new one,” she murmured, and hit a few buttons. “Come on!” she said, grabbing Boston and jumping through the portal. She didn’t want to be there when DoSAT realized that she had just torched at least two Crash Dummies.
They arrived on the other side, no worse for wear, in the habits of novice monks, into the beautiful, bustling setting of a twelfth-century abbey. There was something subtly off about it, though, Az noted, with dismay. It was too bright, too clean, too perfect.
“Where are we?” asked Boston, looking around and carefully smoothing back his hair. He was glad to note that, unlike the men bustling around them, he still had all of it. He wouldn’t have liked to think about having the top of his head shaved…
“The Benedictine abbey at Shrewsbury,” said Az, brushing her own hair back with a small smile. “England, mid twelfth century. One of the better historical canons, in my humble opinion.” She looked around, the hair on the back of her neck rising. “Except, this isn’t right. Too sparkly.” She was about to say more when the air rippled and a slightly high-pitched, pretentious voice began to speak.
The woman that was to marry Lord Alan was beautiful.
Boston winced. “That phrasing was… awkward.” It was all that he could think to say. Rummaging in the sleeve of his habit, he found the notebook and pen that Personnel had given him, began jotting down charges. “Awkward phrasing,” he muttered, writing it down.
She was blond, with liquid brown eyes - Cadfael described them to Hugh as the eyes of a doe - and so slim it seemed she would fall apart if she fell, like a porcelain statue.
Now it was Az’s turn to wince. “Blonde. Not ‘Blond’. With an ‘e’.” She was carefully avoiding the description of the Sue’s frame. Being that thin was not, in fact, a good thing. Nor, in Az’s professional opinion, was it at all attractive.
But that's running ahead of the story
Az felt her gut wrench as the unexpected time reorder made her reach for Boston, clutching at him to keep herself from falling over.
In the evening, two days before the grand wedding, Chiara McLean went to see Cadfael in his workshop. He was the brother she liked the most. Brother Prior and brother Jerome were too arrogant for her taste, and most others treated her too formal. Like if she was Lady d'Ombre already.
Boston looked at Az, then back at the Sue who was currently tromping through an immaculately manicured vegetable and herb garden. “Chiara. That name doesn’t sound right to me.”
Az frowned. Miss Chiara McLean was indeed pale haired, and was as thin as to be skeletal. Rather than attractive, as she was obviously supposed to be, she looked as though she hadn’t eaten more than three hundred calories a day in several months. “It’s not right. That name is… Italian, I think. It’s not a name that would be given to a girl in this time period and location.”
Boston, giving Az a look, wrote down “Anachronistic name”, and turned back to watching the action. “Will you explain to me exactly what this canon is?” he asked, as they watched the emaciated girl aimlessly destroy various bits of plant matter before finally settling on breaking and entering.
Az, carefully avoiding the partially destroyed vegetation, led the way over to lean against the wall of the workshop and herb-shed that the girl had just entered, after finding that there was no one inside. “It’s… There’s a monk who was once a crusader who now solves murders… well, here. This looks to be about… Do me a favour. Charge her for breaking and entering, thinking looking anorexic is sexy, and stealing the plot of the Leper of St. Giles. Complete with the name ‘Agnes’ for one of her guardians.”
It was at that point that an eighteen-inch-tall, stocky monk with white hair finished ‘tut-tut’ing his way through the ruined garden, and walked up to Az and Boston. “Good morrow, lads,” he said, bending down to pick a leaf off of Azrael’s sandal.
Az stared, bemused. “And you would be?” she finally asked, squatting down to look at the little monk.
“Cadfaels, my son,” said the beaming Cadfaels. “Or should I say, my daughter?”
Az blinked. “Oh! Oh you’re a Mini!” She looked back at Boston, who was staring with some horror at the Mini before them. “Charge her for creation of the Mini…. Mini-character? … Charge her for the creation of Cadfaels the Mini.”
While Azrael continued to converse with Cadfaels the Mini, Boston watched a much larger version of the Mini carefully meander through the wreck of his garden, looking somewhat dismayed. “Lads,” he said, nodding to the pair, before stopping, frowning. “Do excuse me, young fellows, but I do not seem to recall ever seeing you before, and yet here you are in the robes of my order.”
Az looked up, opened her mouth, closed it again, and looked down guiltily at the Mini she had been talking to. Standing, carefully, she looked at Boston, then back at the patiently waiting Canon, and stepped in front of the Mini.
“Azrael, is this supposed to happen?” asked Boston, nudging her.
“No. No it is not. Um… Um… Brother? We are… You and all that you know is in great danger.” Thinking furiously, Az said the first thing that came to mind. “We are known to Olivier de Bretagne. The lady within your herbarium at this very moment is in grave danger. We must take her away with us, but she will not come with us willingly, for fear for her own life.” Az hoped that what she was saying would convince the shrewd monk. She also hoped that she wasn’t making a terrible, terrible mistake in what she was about to do.
“When you go within, she will ask you for a cure for a headache. You must give her a sleeping draught, so that we may sneak her out of the abbey and away from her future husband. I swear by Allah that she will come to no harm by our hands.” Az held her breath, hoping against hope. From what she could remember, the man had a great respect for the Saracens he had once fought…
“You could do worse than believe her, my good fellow,” piped up Cadfaels, coming out from behind Az and looking up at his Canon counterpart. “I have just been having a most interesting and informative conversation with this young lady.”
“My word,” said the Canon, staring down at his miniature self. “Where exactly did you two say you were from?”
“Look, brother, you really must trust us!” Said Az, attempting to keep her voice low enough that the girl who waited inside the herbarium couldn’t hear her. “It is imperative that we take the lady Chiara away before her bridegroom arrives, or there will be death and sorrow. If you aid us, I promise you, all will be set right, and she will live a full, happy life, well cared for by those who love her. Please, brother, for the lady Chiara, help us?”
The monk hesitated, looked again at the Mini, and nodded. “Very well. But remember, God is watching you, and He will be sure that you keep to your word.”
With that, he headed inside the herbarium, and continued his part in the Fic.
Az turned to Boston, looking horrified. “What have I done?”
Boston looked at the herbarium, down at the Mini, up at Azrael, and then back at the herbarium. “I believe that you just promised not to hurt the girl that we were sent to kill. Who did you swear by, by the way?”
“The god whom I serve,” said Az, pathetically. “And now I have to keep that promise.”
“I’ll say,” interjected the Mini, giving Az a stern glare.
Turning to the nearest tree, Az slowly and carefully began banging her head against it. “I can’t believe I just did that. I mean… I could have just… but…”
“You know,” said Boston, writing ‘Throwing a Canon Character so OOC that he sees and interacts with Agents of the PPC’ on his notepad, “she’s not really that bad, as Sues go. She hasn’t hurt anyone, and her warping of the Canon mostly seems to be around her. As we both well know, sometimes the characters in a Fic aren’t so bad. Sometimes, they can be recruited…”
Az looked at Boston, who was giving her a sly look. “Well, yes, but we weren’t the main characters. We weren’t Sues. Do you really think…?”
“It would let you keep your promise,” said Boston, with a small smile. “Shall I charge her for making the fellow we just spoke with drop what he was carrying? He seemed too put together to drop things at the sight of someone.”
Azrael shook her head to clear it, and nodded. “Yes, charge her for that, and for the anachronistic speech.” As a strangely tasty odor started drifting through the open herbarium window, Azrael frowned. “Also charge her for thinking that a medieval headache cure would smell or taste good.” She sat down with her back to the herbarium wall, and was surprised when her stomach made a rumbling sound.
She was even more surprised when, a moment later, an apple and half a loaf of bread fell out of the window she had sat down next to. “Oh. How thoughtful.”
It took only a few more minutes before the monk exited his herbarium once again, giving a stern look to Az. “The lady sleeps, though it puts me ill at ease to cause her to do so,” he said, heavily. “You give me your word that you will not harm her?”
Az looked up at him, ready to puff herself up and defend her right to murder the girl, but the look on the monk’s face made her deflate. “As I love my own daughter, she will be protected,” said Az, limply.
“Very well,” said Cadfael, and stepped out of her way.
***
When Chiara woke, she was loosely bound, in the loft of the Horse-Fair stables. Az and Boston sat not far away, sharing their apple, bread, and a lump of cheese, with Cadfaels.
Chiara screamed.
“Oh hush,” said Az, looking at her. “You didn’t want to be married, and we’ve just saved you from it. We’ll do you no harm. I’ve promised Brother Cadfael that much.”
Chiara, oddly, quieted. “Who are you? What have you done to me? What’s going on? I just want answers, okay?”
Az got up, and came over to Chiara, taking the girl’s bound hands in her own. “Lady Chiara McLean? I am Agent Azrael, and this is Agent Boston, and we are representatives of the Protectors of the Plot Continuum. We were sent here to kill you.” At Chiara’s frightened gasp, Az rolled her eyes, and squeezed the girl’s hands in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. “However, since you managed to warp the character of Brother Cadfael to the point that he was able to see my partner and I, and I was forced to think not only on my feet, but hungry, I promised not to hurt you. Therefore, I am left with one option, and one option alone: Chiara McLean, you are hereby recruited into the Protectors of the Plot Continuum.” Az looked over her shoulder. “Boston, read the charges, if you will? I can’t read your chicken scratch.”
Boston stood up, and cleared his throat. “Chiara McLean, by the power apparently vested in me by the Protectors of the Plot Continuum and the Continuum Protection Initiative, I hereby charge you with Awkward phrasing, having ‘Blond’ hair, having an anachronistic name, breaking and entering, thinking looking anorexic is sexy, stealing the plot of the Leper of St. Giles, complete with the name ‘Agnes’ for one of your guardians, creation of Cadfaels the Mini, throwing a Canon Character so OOC that he sees and interacts with Agents of the PPC,” Boston was forced to draw a breath, “warping of the Canon in general, making Cadfael drop his thing upon seeing someone in his herbarium, anachronistic speech, thinking that a medieval headache cure would smell or taste good, acting male as a female in the twelfth century, fragmented sentences, awkward grammar, breaking the fourth wall, and being a Mary Sue.” Boston finally stopped, taking another deep breath.
Az took over, glaring a little at the girl. “The punishment for this should be death, but for the reasons stated above, we will be arresting you, rehabilitating you, and putting you to work as a productive member of society. You will be given Mary Sue Rehabilitation Classes, be required to attend support group meetings, and probably banned from this continuum for a while. And for the love of Allah, eat something! You’re too skinny to properly do anything!”
“What are you guys talking about?” demanded Chiara, who, for reasons known only to herself, was holding tightly to Azrael’s hand.
“You made a mediocre, annoying fanfic with strange grammar and a missing apostrophe that mildly lobotomized the main character of its source. We’re granting you mercy and signing you up to help others eliminate things worse than you made, because we’ve both been in the same boat that you are now. We’re being nice.” Az smiled at the girl, her anger at her leaving quickly. “Besides, we’re saving you from an arranged marriage without you having to kill anyone. The man you were to marry will simply disappear the moment we take you out of this fic. Now come on. Let’s get out of here and take you to headquarters. Where we can feed you.”
***
The Marquis de Sod was happy to have a new recruit. Medical was happy to report that the pair of dead Canons that Az had dropped in on their last mission were recovered and returned to their rightful places. DoSAT was less than happy when Az arrived, carrying a pair of scorched Crash Dummies with the “me” scratched out and “Aragon” and “Eldorna” scrawled onto them in Sharpie. The excuse of “We honestly didn’t know that they were Crash Dummies!” did not put the annoyed young man behind the desk in any better of a mood.
When Az got back to her RC, she found Boston asleep, curled in his Cute Animal Friend form as a German Shepherd in the middle of the RC floor. Farawen was sitting next to him, playing a strange game that involved a single, multi-sided die and a lot of glass blobs, with the Minis Eldornna and Cadfaels. “Mommy, we’re playing Cthulhu Dice!” said Fara, quietly, grinning and patting the floor next to her. “You should play too! It’s fun!”
Az considered, looked at the console, and sat down. Maybe, just once, the laws of Narrative Comedy would realize that she just needed a moment of quality time with her kid.
Rating: T
Obligatory linkage: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5932566/1/Independence#
Sporked by: dawnbluewings , as Agents Az and Boston
Notes: Suishness, OOCness, Just Sort Of Blah.
Disclaimer: I do not Own the PPC. I do not own the character in this Fic, nor the Fic I have sporked. I own Az, Boston, and Farawen. That's about it. I was given Permission to write for the PPC in June of 2009.
A&B Mission 2 - Independence.
Stumbling back into their RC, mostly drunk on Bleepka and trailing various minis, Agents Azrael and Boston of the Protectors of the Plot Continuum were greeted by a very nondescript man in a business suit, wearing sunglasses and carrying a clipboard.
Az, whose five years as Agent had made her very wary of strange men baring clipboards, approached first, attempting to stand as straight as she could, and not fall over. “Yes?”
The man smiled, what a
ppeared to be an attempt at a friendly smile, and extended the clipboard, with a pen. “Agent Amira Azrael Sharbat Typon? Sign here, please.”
“What is it?” Az eyed the paper with distrust.
“A waiver, stating that the fic you just dealt with featured cruel and unusual treatment of Minis, to which end the minis in question were removed upon generation and transported immediately to the Adoption Agency, and Crash Dummies placed in their respective roles. Did you happen to remember to secure the Crash Dummies?”
Az blinked, shook her head to clear it, and signed the paper.
“Thank you,” said the man, taking back the clipboard, and extending a hand to Rivandall. “come with me, Rivandall. I’ll get you back to mommy…” All of the brisk efficiency of his voice was gone, replaced by cooing syrupiness at the Mini.
When the pair had gone, Az turned back to her partner.
“Crash Dummy?” asked Boston, looking just as dazed as Az felt.
“It means that we’re in trouble,” said Az, and closed her eyes, hoping against -
[BEEEEEEEEEEEP!]
Az lurched to the console, and hit the Acknowledgement button. A new Fic began scrolling down the display. “Cadfael? That’s a new one,” she murmured, and hit a few buttons. “Come on!” she said, grabbing Boston and jumping through the portal. She didn’t want to be there when DoSAT realized that she had just torched at least two Crash Dummies.
They arrived on the other side, no worse for wear, in the habits of novice monks, into the beautiful, bustling setting of a twelfth-century abbey. There was something subtly off about it, though, Az noted, with dismay. It was too bright, too clean, too perfect.
“Where are we?” asked Boston, looking around and carefully smoothing back his hair. He was glad to note that, unlike the men bustling around them, he still had all of it. He wouldn’t have liked to think about having the top of his head shaved…
“The Benedictine abbey at Shrewsbury,” said Az, brushing her own hair back with a small smile. “England, mid twelfth century. One of the better historical canons, in my humble opinion.” She looked around, the hair on the back of her neck rising. “Except, this isn’t right. Too sparkly.” She was about to say more when the air rippled and a slightly high-pitched, pretentious voice began to speak.
The woman that was to marry Lord Alan was beautiful.
Boston winced. “That phrasing was… awkward.” It was all that he could think to say. Rummaging in the sleeve of his habit, he found the notebook and pen that Personnel had given him, began jotting down charges. “Awkward phrasing,” he muttered, writing it down.
She was blond, with liquid brown eyes - Cadfael described them to Hugh as the eyes of a doe - and so slim it seemed she would fall apart if she fell, like a porcelain statue.
Now it was Az’s turn to wince. “Blonde. Not ‘Blond’. With an ‘e’.” She was carefully avoiding the description of the Sue’s frame. Being that thin was not, in fact, a good thing. Nor, in Az’s professional opinion, was it at all attractive.
But that's running ahead of the story
Az felt her gut wrench as the unexpected time reorder made her reach for Boston, clutching at him to keep herself from falling over.
In the evening, two days before the grand wedding, Chiara McLean went to see Cadfael in his workshop. He was the brother she liked the most. Brother Prior and brother Jerome were too arrogant for her taste, and most others treated her too formal. Like if she was Lady d'Ombre already.
Boston looked at Az, then back at the Sue who was currently tromping through an immaculately manicured vegetable and herb garden. “Chiara. That name doesn’t sound right to me.”
Az frowned. Miss Chiara McLean was indeed pale haired, and was as thin as to be skeletal. Rather than attractive, as she was obviously supposed to be, she looked as though she hadn’t eaten more than three hundred calories a day in several months. “It’s not right. That name is… Italian, I think. It’s not a name that would be given to a girl in this time period and location.”
Boston, giving Az a look, wrote down “Anachronistic name”, and turned back to watching the action. “Will you explain to me exactly what this canon is?” he asked, as they watched the emaciated girl aimlessly destroy various bits of plant matter before finally settling on breaking and entering.
Az, carefully avoiding the partially destroyed vegetation, led the way over to lean against the wall of the workshop and herb-shed that the girl had just entered, after finding that there was no one inside. “It’s… There’s a monk who was once a crusader who now solves murders… well, here. This looks to be about… Do me a favour. Charge her for breaking and entering, thinking looking anorexic is sexy, and stealing the plot of the Leper of St. Giles. Complete with the name ‘Agnes’ for one of her guardians.”
It was at that point that an eighteen-inch-tall, stocky monk with white hair finished ‘tut-tut’ing his way through the ruined garden, and walked up to Az and Boston. “Good morrow, lads,” he said, bending down to pick a leaf off of Azrael’s sandal.
Az stared, bemused. “And you would be?” she finally asked, squatting down to look at the little monk.
“Cadfaels, my son,” said the beaming Cadfaels. “Or should I say, my daughter?”
Az blinked. “Oh! Oh you’re a Mini!” She looked back at Boston, who was staring with some horror at the Mini before them. “Charge her for creation of the Mini…. Mini-character? … Charge her for the creation of Cadfaels the Mini.”
While Azrael continued to converse with Cadfaels the Mini, Boston watched a much larger version of the Mini carefully meander through the wreck of his garden, looking somewhat dismayed. “Lads,” he said, nodding to the pair, before stopping, frowning. “Do excuse me, young fellows, but I do not seem to recall ever seeing you before, and yet here you are in the robes of my order.”
Az looked up, opened her mouth, closed it again, and looked down guiltily at the Mini she had been talking to. Standing, carefully, she looked at Boston, then back at the patiently waiting Canon, and stepped in front of the Mini.
“Azrael, is this supposed to happen?” asked Boston, nudging her.
“No. No it is not. Um… Um… Brother? We are… You and all that you know is in great danger.” Thinking furiously, Az said the first thing that came to mind. “We are known to Olivier de Bretagne. The lady within your herbarium at this very moment is in grave danger. We must take her away with us, but she will not come with us willingly, for fear for her own life.” Az hoped that what she was saying would convince the shrewd monk. She also hoped that she wasn’t making a terrible, terrible mistake in what she was about to do.
“When you go within, she will ask you for a cure for a headache. You must give her a sleeping draught, so that we may sneak her out of the abbey and away from her future husband. I swear by Allah that she will come to no harm by our hands.” Az held her breath, hoping against hope. From what she could remember, the man had a great respect for the Saracens he had once fought…
“You could do worse than believe her, my good fellow,” piped up Cadfaels, coming out from behind Az and looking up at his Canon counterpart. “I have just been having a most interesting and informative conversation with this young lady.”
“My word,” said the Canon, staring down at his miniature self. “Where exactly did you two say you were from?”
“Look, brother, you really must trust us!” Said Az, attempting to keep her voice low enough that the girl who waited inside the herbarium couldn’t hear her. “It is imperative that we take the lady Chiara away before her bridegroom arrives, or there will be death and sorrow. If you aid us, I promise you, all will be set right, and she will live a full, happy life, well cared for by those who love her. Please, brother, for the lady Chiara, help us?”
The monk hesitated, looked again at the Mini, and nodded. “Very well. But remember, God is watching you, and He will be sure that you keep to your word.”
With that, he headed inside the herbarium, and continued his part in the Fic.
Az turned to Boston, looking horrified. “What have I done?”
Boston looked at the herbarium, down at the Mini, up at Azrael, and then back at the herbarium. “I believe that you just promised not to hurt the girl that we were sent to kill. Who did you swear by, by the way?”
“The god whom I serve,” said Az, pathetically. “And now I have to keep that promise.”
“I’ll say,” interjected the Mini, giving Az a stern glare.
Turning to the nearest tree, Az slowly and carefully began banging her head against it. “I can’t believe I just did that. I mean… I could have just… but…”
“You know,” said Boston, writing ‘Throwing a Canon Character so OOC that he sees and interacts with Agents of the PPC’ on his notepad, “she’s not really that bad, as Sues go. She hasn’t hurt anyone, and her warping of the Canon mostly seems to be around her. As we both well know, sometimes the characters in a Fic aren’t so bad. Sometimes, they can be recruited…”
Az looked at Boston, who was giving her a sly look. “Well, yes, but we weren’t the main characters. We weren’t Sues. Do you really think…?”
“It would let you keep your promise,” said Boston, with a small smile. “Shall I charge her for making the fellow we just spoke with drop what he was carrying? He seemed too put together to drop things at the sight of someone.”
Azrael shook her head to clear it, and nodded. “Yes, charge her for that, and for the anachronistic speech.” As a strangely tasty odor started drifting through the open herbarium window, Azrael frowned. “Also charge her for thinking that a medieval headache cure would smell or taste good.” She sat down with her back to the herbarium wall, and was surprised when her stomach made a rumbling sound.
She was even more surprised when, a moment later, an apple and half a loaf of bread fell out of the window she had sat down next to. “Oh. How thoughtful.”
It took only a few more minutes before the monk exited his herbarium once again, giving a stern look to Az. “The lady sleeps, though it puts me ill at ease to cause her to do so,” he said, heavily. “You give me your word that you will not harm her?”
Az looked up at him, ready to puff herself up and defend her right to murder the girl, but the look on the monk’s face made her deflate. “As I love my own daughter, she will be protected,” said Az, limply.
“Very well,” said Cadfael, and stepped out of her way.
***
When Chiara woke, she was loosely bound, in the loft of the Horse-Fair stables. Az and Boston sat not far away, sharing their apple, bread, and a lump of cheese, with Cadfaels.
Chiara screamed.
“Oh hush,” said Az, looking at her. “You didn’t want to be married, and we’ve just saved you from it. We’ll do you no harm. I’ve promised Brother Cadfael that much.”
Chiara, oddly, quieted. “Who are you? What have you done to me? What’s going on? I just want answers, okay?”
Az got up, and came over to Chiara, taking the girl’s bound hands in her own. “Lady Chiara McLean? I am Agent Azrael, and this is Agent Boston, and we are representatives of the Protectors of the Plot Continuum. We were sent here to kill you.” At Chiara’s frightened gasp, Az rolled her eyes, and squeezed the girl’s hands in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. “However, since you managed to warp the character of Brother Cadfael to the point that he was able to see my partner and I, and I was forced to think not only on my feet, but hungry, I promised not to hurt you. Therefore, I am left with one option, and one option alone: Chiara McLean, you are hereby recruited into the Protectors of the Plot Continuum.” Az looked over her shoulder. “Boston, read the charges, if you will? I can’t read your chicken scratch.”
Boston stood up, and cleared his throat. “Chiara McLean, by the power apparently vested in me by the Protectors of the Plot Continuum and the Continuum Protection Initiative, I hereby charge you with Awkward phrasing, having ‘Blond’ hair, having an anachronistic name, breaking and entering, thinking looking anorexic is sexy, stealing the plot of the Leper of St. Giles, complete with the name ‘Agnes’ for one of your guardians, creation of Cadfaels the Mini, throwing a Canon Character so OOC that he sees and interacts with Agents of the PPC,” Boston was forced to draw a breath, “warping of the Canon in general, making Cadfael drop his thing upon seeing someone in his herbarium, anachronistic speech, thinking that a medieval headache cure would smell or taste good, acting male as a female in the twelfth century, fragmented sentences, awkward grammar, breaking the fourth wall, and being a Mary Sue.” Boston finally stopped, taking another deep breath.
Az took over, glaring a little at the girl. “The punishment for this should be death, but for the reasons stated above, we will be arresting you, rehabilitating you, and putting you to work as a productive member of society. You will be given Mary Sue Rehabilitation Classes, be required to attend support group meetings, and probably banned from this continuum for a while. And for the love of Allah, eat something! You’re too skinny to properly do anything!”
“What are you guys talking about?” demanded Chiara, who, for reasons known only to herself, was holding tightly to Azrael’s hand.
“You made a mediocre, annoying fanfic with strange grammar and a missing apostrophe that mildly lobotomized the main character of its source. We’re granting you mercy and signing you up to help others eliminate things worse than you made, because we’ve both been in the same boat that you are now. We’re being nice.” Az smiled at the girl, her anger at her leaving quickly. “Besides, we’re saving you from an arranged marriage without you having to kill anyone. The man you were to marry will simply disappear the moment we take you out of this fic. Now come on. Let’s get out of here and take you to headquarters. Where we can feed you.”
***
The Marquis de Sod was happy to have a new recruit. Medical was happy to report that the pair of dead Canons that Az had dropped in on their last mission were recovered and returned to their rightful places. DoSAT was less than happy when Az arrived, carrying a pair of scorched Crash Dummies with the “me” scratched out and “Aragon” and “Eldorna” scrawled onto them in Sharpie. The excuse of “We honestly didn’t know that they were Crash Dummies!” did not put the annoyed young man behind the desk in any better of a mood.
When Az got back to her RC, she found Boston asleep, curled in his Cute Animal Friend form as a German Shepherd in the middle of the RC floor. Farawen was sitting next to him, playing a strange game that involved a single, multi-sided die and a lot of glass blobs, with the Minis Eldornna and Cadfaels. “Mommy, we’re playing Cthulhu Dice!” said Fara, quietly, grinning and patting the floor next to her. “You should play too! It’s fun!”
Az considered, looked at the console, and sat down. Maybe, just once, the laws of Narrative Comedy would realize that she just needed a moment of quality time with her kid.