Parke-Laine-Next Residence, Swindon, England - December 1990
[OOC: When at home, Thursday uses first person. It's disconcerting, but canon!]
Christmas, for the most part, had been uneventful. My mother was pleased to see us since Friday and I weren't able to make it home last year on account of the Minotaur wanting to put a bullet in my head to accompany the one he'd put there two years ago during the SuperHoop 88 croquet match. My brother Joffy and his partner Miles had gone away for Christmas this year, much to my mother's disappointment and while I wasn't dying to have him around, the thought of inviting him to Fandom for a weekend did cross my mind. If nothing else, the meeting of minds between Joffy and Karal would be worth the effort. Unlike Joffy, Aunt Polly and Uncle Mycroft were around for Christmas as well. Mycroft had started writing romance novels in his retirement, which kept him close to home, and although I'd been asked more than once to take a look at the novels, I found ways to make my excuses in case I ever had to deal with his characters face to face during my work with Jurisfiction.
It wasn't until the day after Boxing Day that I received word from Jurisfiction that it was safe to come through. Friday was happy to spend some time with his grandmother and great aunt and they were more than content to dote on the boy and try to feed him Battenberg now that he was old enough to avoid choking on the crumbs. With Friday taken care of the next day, I retreated to the house that Landen and I had called home during our all too brief time together, opened my TravelBook and began to read.
I was in a long, dark, wood-pannelled corridor lined with bookshelves that reached from the richly carpeted floor to the vaulted ceiling. The Great Library appeared before my eyes as it had countless times before, no longer silent and empty as it had been during my last visit, but full of the vibrant sounds of activity that meant all was in working order. The library wasn't the problem. The trip itself had felt wrong and almost but not quite painful, like I had tried to push through a wall of Dream Topping instead of thin air. The other thing I noticed was that I was desperately thirsty and there wasn't a jug of water in sight. Darkness crept in around the corners of my eyes and before I knew it, I had passed out.
At least, I assumed I had passed out because the next thing I remembered was waking up looking at the vaulted ceiling with Trafford Bradshaw trying to get me to sip some water. I blinked a few times to clear my head and complied, gulping down the water as soon as I was able. After a few moments, I felt infinitely better and was able to sit up.
"That's not supposed to happen." I was developing a habit of pointing out the obvious.
"Yes it is," the Cheshire Cat argued. "It wasn't supposed to happen before, but we suspected something like this might happen. The textual filters are meant to keep us in and Outlanders out."
"You're somewhat of a problem," Bradshaw affirmed as he helped me to my feet, then added with a friendly tone, "but that's nothing new. They might have gone overboard with the filters. I'll send word for the Text Grand Central boys to turn the filters down so it won't be as bad when you come through, but I suspect over time they'll have to increase them again just to be safe. With any luck, you'll develop a tolerance and it won't be a problem."
"I hope so," I replied. "Passing out isn't really something I'd like to do on a regular basis." We started down the corridor towards the spiralling staircase at the centre of the cross-shaped library that would take us to the levels where the Council of Genres chambers were situated. "Did you get my note?" I asked. I had sent a message to Trafford earlier in the week reporting my formal resignation as Jurisfiction Bellman. While I hoped to stay on as an agent, I knew I was never cut out for the paperwork that came with being in charge. My temporary time off in Fandom had shown that things could be run without me and I was more than happy to hand the job over to someone more qualified and willing to deal with the bureaucracy.
"I did and while all of us were sorry to see you go-"
"Not the Red Queen."
"Well, no, but she's the Red Queen. In your absence," he continued, "we voted on the new Bellman." He gave me a bright smile behind that bushy moustache. "You're looking at him."
"Congratulations," I said with sincerity and more than a bit of sympathy. "How did Melanie take the news?"
"As good as she could have," Trafford replied about his wife, the gorilla. "She's pleased for me and keeps baking banana cake in celebration, but I think she's a tad nervous."
I understood. My predecessor had been killed and I had been shot in the head. The position made the occupant an easy target for Pagerunners and other criminals who weren't happy about the police nosing around in their business. We walked the rest of the way to the chamber in silence, stopping only briefly to indulge the Cat while he told them a riddle since he threatened to sing Henry VIII incessantly if they didn't. Much to the Cat's disappointment, Thursday knew one of the many answers right away and it turned out that a raven wasn't like a writing desk at all.
The events that went on inside the Council of Genres chambers weren't really worth repeating. Most political meetings weren't. There were, however, several points of interest, the first being that a small amount of my blood still stained the floor of the central circle of the room despite the BookWorld's most talented cleaners giving it their best. The second was that the Council, with insistence from the combined forces of the members for Fantasy, Gothic, Horror and Detective Fiction, had taken the blood stain as a sign to remember what they were here for - to protect the BookWorld. This led to an internal review of their proceedings, since it was the Council's fault that Pheces had become so powerful in the first place, which resulted in my appointment as the LBOCS for the Council, an honorary member with the power of the veto.
As amusing as I found it at first after learning what the acronym meant, I was their Last Bastion of Common Sense. I was there to weigh in on major decisions to ensure that they weren't caught up by the constraints of their characterisation and any dramatic tension-building that came with the fictional world. I wasn't sure if I wanted the job at first, but by the time I left, I realised how important the position was and how, as the only active Jurisfiction member from the Outland, I was the only one who could fulfil the requirements of the role.
It wasn't anything they said. It was the blood stain on the floor and the knowledge that if I didn't, there would be a next time and next time there would be more blood, followed by that floor disappearing into loose, useless text for good.
I read myself back to my living room a few hours later in time to receive a phone call from Bowden. The BookWorld was safe and sound for the moment, but there were other problems to deal with, or at least one major problem. His name was Sullivan Pheces, he was the Commissioner General of SpecOps and, for some reason that still eluded me, he was trying to destroy my life one piece at a time.