Inter-Mission #3: Isaiah's Cafeteria Mishap.
Summary: Where was Agent Isaiah while Mara and Rosie were following Felina? Being off duty in the PPC doesn't prevent adventure. Grammar attacks, and Quen comes to the rescue.
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Ambling down the labyrinth of corridors, Agent Isaiah couldn't help but bang into several walls on his way to the PPC lounge. Normally, he would just imagine that he was going to a different destination than the one he was actually trying to reach, but residual trauma from a recent PPCing distracted him. In his new mindset, he had to shut his eyes tightly in order to reach the right place. Finally, a whiff of Bleepka reached his nostrils and he knew he had arrived.
Quen was waiting for him, work piled up on her lap, as always.
"How's the PPC's favorite secretary been lately?" Isaiah greeted her.
Quen smiled. "Quite well, thanks. I've got a strange new mission I'm supposed to do..." she brushed the matter aside. "How've you been?"
Isaiah shrugged. "Eh, okay. Mara's not letting me go into the Lord of the Rings fandom anymore." He mumbled, "Well, okay, I refused to go into that fandom anymore. I think she's brooding a lot, waiting for a mission to come her way."
"I don't blame you. The Lord of the Rings fandom is a...how to phrase this politely? A real pain."
"To put it plainly, there are only a couple of really heroic, virtuous people in Pirates of the Caribbean," Isaiah explained. "Lord of the Rings, on the other hand, contains most of my childhood idols."
Quen said comfortingly, "So it's worse, isn't it?"
"Mmm." He looked melancholic. "Lots of the Pirates characters are terrific, but it's different."
Quen had shifted over one space so that he could sit down. "Star Trek was hard for me since I'm from there, so I know how things are supposed to go. But I never heard of Lord of the Rings until I came to the PPC." She clutched a copy of the Silmarillion to her chest, and one of her papers fluttered to the floor.
Isaiah retrieved it at once and handed it to her. "For example, Jack as a rapist is way out of character, but it's not the same as making Boromir or Aragorn a rapist."
Quen shuddered. "Gah!"
It had been a while since the secretary had tried PPC field work.
Isaiah continued. "Contrary to fanfiction, Norrington's not a vile official who can't see past his rulebook, but if he were made the fangirls' villain, it wouldn't be the same as vilifying Elrond or Imrahil."
"He doesn't have the same kind of history or the same kind of emotional meaning," Quen finished.
"Exactly. Why tear down Boromir or Aragorn like that?"
"It doesn't make any sense to me, either." Quen sighed. "Do you want to get some supper, Isaiah?"
"Sure, why not?"
Quen took his arm accordingly.
Then Isaiah frowned. "Wait, I remember why not. Stupid PPC cafeteria, never serves anything good."
"True."
He grinned. "But anything for you, Quen."
Quen returned his smile. Isaiah put his hand on the small of Quen's back and gently escorted her in. Unfortunately, as an idea hit Quen, she stopped walking, which caused Isaiah's arm to bend backward. He nearly lost his balance while Quen mused, "Unless you want to go to Quark's? Or another fictional eatery?"
Isaiah thought for a moment. "What does the PPC lounge serve in the evenings?"
"You know, I honestly don't know. I think they have a lot of alcohol."
"Alcohol's no good on an empty stomach. Plus, I'm not 21 yet, and the only alcohol I've had was when the DTE went on a 'business trip' to the Caribbean, and again when you and I went out to dinner on the Interceptor. Eh, let's see what the cafeteria has, anyway."
"All right." Together, they stepped into the busily buzzing cafeteria. It took a split second for Isaiah to realize that the entire cafeteria would see that they were in close contact. He debated internally for a moment-he and Quen were partial to a private relationship-and shrugged off his bashfulness. "Here you go, Quen." He handed her a mug.
"Oh, thank you!" Quen slipped out from under his arm to take a steaming cup of coffee.
"Careful, it's hot!"
Quen almost dropped the cup, but caught herself (and it) and went over to the nearest table. Isaiah got his own coffee and, in watching Quen move past him to a seat, forgot that he held a hot beverage and spilled a bit down his front. "Jacoby's bones!" he swore, forgetting himself for a moment as he lapsed into pirate lingo.
"Oh, no!" Quen was too concerned for him to notice the change in diction. "Let me get you a towel." She rummaged through a plothole.
Isaiah started to shiver as his shirt turned cold and icky.
"Here!" Quen handed Isaiah a towel with the Disneyland logo on it. She blinked at the picture of Snow White on the towel. "Yikes. Oh, well, I suppose she's not as Suvian as some." She began to pat at the wet splotch in the middle of his shirt.
"No, no, Snow White's quite sweet," Isaiah said disarmingly. "Now, Ariel is Sueish. Hoo boy." He ticked off traits with his fingers. "Beautiful. Big blue eyes. Unusual-colored hair: fiery red. Has fiery spirit. Falls in love with stock character, Marty Stu Prince Eric. Is rebellious against her oppressive father who just doesn't understand her. Wants a life of adventure in a different world."
"Has Cute Animal Friends. Angsts," Quen helpfully filled in.
"Is young and stick-thin, yet with ample bosom. AND she possesses an enthralling singing voice!" the male agent finished.
"And how stereotyped is the bad guy?" Quen asked. "The octopus woman...what's her name?"
"Ursula," Isaiah replied. "She is actually a cool villain. But in the end, she blows it all away for the cliché line, 'So much for True Love!'" He winced. "Those are her last words. And as if that weren't enough...she violates canon!" He nodded in response to Quen's questioning look. "The original Hans Christian Andersen fable had the Little Mermaid dying and becoming a spirit of the air."
This piece of human historical trivia fascinated Quen. "Really?" Pause. "But she ends up with the prince in the movie, right?"
He nodded again. "Yup. It has a Happily Ever After ending in the movie."
"I think that must be the sort of thing that inspires Suvian authors. Especially if they're exposed to it at a young age, before they read, oh, something like Tolkien." She sipped her coffee. "Hmmm. Shall we try the pizza? The meat looks almost identifiable."
"Yes, that's strange." Isaiah got in line for the food, or what passed for it in PPC HQ. "I'm sure Sherlock Holmes himself couldn't figure out what was in some of our food. Or 'Sherlock Homes,' as the case may be." The name brought back memories of his day PPCing Shay Leigh Turner and the Seven Sues.
Quen chuckled. "It's almost worse when it does look good. Because then you wonder what the cooks are up to." She gingerly tried a slice of her pizza.
"True." Isaiah thought for a moment. "We could look on the bright side by saying that perhaps the cooks found a new dish from a different universe."
As soon as the words left his mouth, Quen made a very, very strange face.
Not wanting to know what she had tasted, Isaiah cautiously took in a forkful of meat.
"That's extremely optimistic of you, Isaiah."
Isaiah munched reflectively. "Hmm, vis ishn't dat bad. How's the piz-"
He keeled over.
Quen rushed to his side. "Ack! Agent down! Isaiah! Speak to me!"
"Mmmmble..." Isaiah's eyelids spasmed for a moment. "Sisdgjlsadfthatwasaprettygoodsteakarr."
"It's worse than I thought--he still likes it!" Quen yelled to the bystanders.
"Morenicesteak, Quen?" Isaiah slurred groggily.
"Er, ah....no, thank you, sweetie."
The male agent tried to roll over and failed miserably. Quen turned him over gently. To a nearby agent, "Should we induce vomiting, do you think?"
For an answer, Isaiah coughed.
"It seems we have no choice." Agent Black had arrived on the scene. "And if worst comes to worst, you might have to administer the Heimlich maneuver."
Quen blushed, then patted Isaiah on the back. The agent hiccupped and his head lolled to one side.
"Gently, now."
"Unh." Isaiah coughed. "What was in that stuff?" He coughed again.
Quen gave him a few gentle thumps on the back. "Water?" she asked, reaching for a glass.
Isaiah waved it away. "No thanks, pro'ly couldn't keep it down. Hmm, is that Bleepka?" He glanced at a bottle that an agent he didn't know had given to Quen.
"It's diluted Bleepka," she answered. "Half soda water, I think."
He nodded wearily. "Say, Quen, are you seeing green Sue monsters, too? They're dancing over the drink machines."
Quen blinked. "I think I'm the only green person here. But there is a striped hat on top of the drink machines. Can you sit up?"
"Mph. Think so." He groaned and managed to get himself into a sitting position.
Quen propped him up. "Poor baby."
Dr. Fitzgerald had finally arrived.
"I hope you dragged me down her for something worthwhile," he said, briskly laying down a thin case and pulling out what looked like a tricoder. "I have three post-traumatic-stress patients waiting, and one that's been dunked in glitter--oh." He bent down and examined Isaiah. "Hmm. Just what was in that pizza?"
"I'm not quite sure," Quen replied. "It looked like Bolian sausage, but...?"
Isaiah shook his head. "Wasn't the pizza. It was the meat. Mmmgoodmeat."
Quen looked worried.
"Hold still, young man," the doctor ordered. He scanned the agent with the tricorder while Quen filled another glass with Bleepka mix.
After some time, the doctor made his diagnosis. "Fascinating. You seem to have a life form growing inside your stomach, Agent."
"What kind of lifeform?!" Quen asked, alarmed.
The doctor nodded towards the Bleepka bottle. "I'd save that for yourself, Agent Quen. He shouldn't ingest any fluids for at least 18 hours."
Quen wasted no time in quaffing the Bleepka herself.
"We'll feed him intravenously," the doctor continued.
"'S okay...don't worry about me, Quen," Isaiah said, putting on what he hoped was a brave face.
The secretary muttered. "We should have gone to Quark's." She kissed the side of his head. "Don't worry. We'll take care of you."
"The life form is unlike any other I have seen," the doctor announced. "It has some very interesting appendages."
"Oh, that's good, then," said Quen with a touch of sarcasm. "I mean, that means you can figure it out in the next twenty minutes of the episode, right?"
"Right after these messages," he said dryly.
"Except that we're not in a Trek episode. Right. Appendages, you said?"
All of a sudden, the doctor stood up. "Aha! Agent Quen, I think we have a very special form of grammasite."
"What's that?" Isaiah interrupted.
"A fictional parasite that feeds on books-I really wonder what was in that steak. It's from the Jurisfiction universe." Dr. Fitzgerald regarded Quen gravely. "Weren't you thinking of opening negotiations with Thursday Next?"
"Yes, the Daisy asked me to try to set up a footnoterphone link. But Isaiah didn't even know about that!"
"I'm afraid he didn't need to."
"...Wait. Is this an exclamation-point eater?"
"No, this one seems to like tildes," he answered.
"Really?" Quen quirked an eyebrow. "Do we even have tildes around here? I know how they clog up the username registry..."
The doctor wasn't listening, having begun a brisk interrogation. "I'm going to need a record of all of your last missions, Agent Isaiah."
"But I haven't gone on any missions," the agent protested. "I've just been helping spork Sues at the PotC Mary Sue report."
"You just came back from a Lord of the Rings mission, didn't you?"
"No, I didn't just come back." Isaiah felt he was entitled to stretch the truth a little. "It was awhile ago."
"Ahh."
Seeing they were getting nowhere, the doctor raised his voice so that the rest of the cafeteria could hear him. "Does anyone have a computer console on hand? I want to look at the Sue report. That report, along with a combination of whatever strange chemical they used to make the steak tastier, might have created this monstrosity."
"I've got a computer in my office," volunteered the secretary. "It's linked up with nearly all the HQ systems. Do we need to take Isaiah to Medical, though?"
"We can't do anything for him there until we know exactly what it looks like. Besides, all of the beds are taken. You agents are certainly susceptible to a high rate of unusual illnesses. Don't worry. I can interface with the computer from here."
While the doctor was investigating the files, Quen took off her jacket and draped it around Isaiah's shoulders in an effort to make him more comfortable.
After a while, the doctor made a satisfied sound. "Agent Isaiah, I think you have an 'oppartunnities' growing in your stomach. Thankfully, it hasn't had enough time to multiply and take on the plural form."
"Oppartunnities? Is that caused by the mispeling vyrus?" Quen asked.
Isaiah seemed to recognize the word. "Oh, great. It had to be that one."
"What happened, Isaiah?" Quen asked.
"It was that Sue report where the author 'didn't even watch the movie!'" He coughed.
"Pirates of the Caribbean, then?" she asked, for clarification.
"Uh-huh."
Quen remembered. "Oh, yes...that one. But how'd it get into the meat?"
"I'm afraid that the life form just had to wait for the... opportune moment...to strike," the doctor explained. "Oppartunnities are like that. They specialize in coincidence."
Quen's palm met her face. "Can you remove it?"
"The Heimlich maneuver should do it. But first, we should coat his mouth and throat with a Sue-blocking substance. Either Bleepto-dismal or Anti-Lustin will do."
"The Bleepto-Dismal might help with the nausea, too."
"Good point. I'll hop back to my office and get a-oh." The doctor turned to Agent Hellga, who had a bottle of Bleepto-Dismal on hand. Quen was just about to offer her own bottle, but put it back in her bag. "Thank you. I forgot that agents carry their remedies everywhere they go." He disinfected a small butter brush from the kitchens, dipped it into the Bleepto-Dismal, and coated Isaiah's throat.
"Arglemph!" he exclaimed. "'At tickles!"
"Hold still, please."
Quen gagged sympathetically. "He's almost done, Isaiah."
"Now, Quen, can you perform the Heimlich maneuver?" the doctor asked while he continued swabbing.
Quen braced her nerves. "I'll try."
"I won't be able to assist you--I'll be extracting the life form."
Quen winced. "All right." She clasped her arms about Isaiah's waist.
Isaiah looked down at her hands folded across his stomach. "Y'know, this isn't a half bad remedy-hyaulk!" Quen had squeezed just at that moment. A good bit of gagging and dry heaves ensued, with Quen trying her best to hold him upright.
"We'll just have to do this some other time," Quen murmured.
Isaiah convulsed twice. A lowercase "o" emerged from his throat.
"There's the head," the doctor said tersely. "One more go should do it."
Quen looked sickened.
The doctor held the oppartunnity's head with one hand and pulled at its body with forceps. Quen's alien skin went from green to chartreuse as Isaiah disgorged the rest of the misspelling.
"Long words don't like to come out," the doctor informed them. He poked the oppartunnity, which was wriggling on the floor, trying to get at the doctor.
"You okay?" Quen asked Isaiah.
He gulped uncertainly. "I think so."
Quen edged herself and Isaiah away from the grammasite.
In a trice, all the agents in the cafeteria, trained to attack bad grammar, came forward and took turns bashing the "oppartunnity" into the floor. Quen attempted to escape the fray, but didn't quite make it. "Ow! That's my-" she pulled out the remote activator and opened a portal to Medical.
Thwocked on the head with textbooks and dismembered with scalpel-sharp knives, the grammasite was quickly flattened.
"I wouldn't want to be that critter right now," the secretary said ruefully as the portal grew.
Isaiah struggled to protect Quen from the PPC mob. Unfortunately, he still wasn't feeling well enough. Quen saw what he was doing and dragged him towards the portal. "Come on, this is no time for heroics."
"Well, I think that's solved," said the doctor calmly. "I'll accompany you to Medical. Mr. Dafydd should have his head back on straight by the time I get there, and we'll be able to put him up in a cot for the night. In the meantime, I don't suppose you would mind staying with him?"
"No, not at all," said Quen immediately. She had gone into worried-protector mode.
Together, they stepped through the glittering blue doorway.
"Good," the doctor said. "Thank you for your help, Agent Quen. I'll contact his partner and let her know that he's indisposed at the moment." He paused. "One more thing."
"Yes?"
The doctor handed Isaiah a cup of replicated Pink Stuff and two breath mints. "Pink Stuff first, then breath mints, then rest."
Quen's eyes widened. "Isn't the Pink Stuff toxic?"
"Only on an empty stomach. It does cause some drowsiness. Also, it will cleanse him of whatever has been in his system."
Quen nodded. "All right. You said no other fluids?"
"Correct, but that was when the life form was in him and I was unsure whether I'd be able to extract it. He'll be able to have a glass of water at 0:300 hours. Make sure to wake him."
"I will," said the secretary resolutely. "C'mon, Isaiah. Is there an empty bed yet?"
The doctor nodded. "I'll be back in a moment. I'm mixing more medicine for Annamaria the Misspelled Monkey. She got a whiff of Sue-essence: lavender and jasmine. Terrible stuff." He tapped Agent Dafydd's forehead. "Sir, you may go. I would suggest moving your neck as little as possible until your next mission."
Dafydd nodded, then reluctantly got up, head nodding like a bobble-head doll. Quen tried not to imagine just what could have happened to him.
After a while, Isaiah spoke. "Sure is quiet in here." He looked around. "All the other agents seem to be sleeping or comatose. Poor guys."
"How are you feeling?" she asked anxiously.
"Much better." He grinned mischievously. "In fact..." he popped in a breath mint "...I feel absolutely perfect."
Without warning, he pulled Quen into a passionate kiss.
Quen's eyes went wide. She was happy yet surprised, as Isaiah wasn't usually this demonstrative.
"You're my darling, you know that?" he said brazenly.
"Mmm...er...yes?" Did the Pink Stuff go to his head?
"Thanks for looking out for me."
Somewhat puzzled, Quen replied, "You're welcome. Are you sure you're feeling okay?"
Isaiah sighed contentedly. "I just realized that, if at any time, I die of a grammar-related illness, you should know how much I admire and adore you."
Quen laughed, slightly embarrassed. "All right."
The DTE agent smiled. "Hope you didn't mind." He looked worried as he slipped back into his old bashful habits. "I mean, it was kind of an off the top of my head thing...and I dunno if it was okay, I'm not really experienced at this sort of thing..."
"Not at all, my heroic knight!" Quen interjected half-seriously. She hugged him gently. "That makes two of us."
Isaiah returned the gesture. "Hey. Thanks."
Quen didn't have to ask what he meant. "You're very welcome, and you'd do the same for me."
"Without hesitation." He paused. "Am I really heroic?"
"Yes, you are. How many people would willingly go up against You!Sues, hey?"
He shuddered. "I hate romantic sap. I hate romantic sap. I hate romantic sap. I'm not too sentimental when I'm courting you, am I?" he asked suddenly.
"I don't think you are," said Quen honestly.
"Oh, good." He softly kissed her cheek. Quen returned the kiss.
"All right. Lie down. Did you take the Bleepto-Dismal?"
From somewhere in the rows of beds, an agent yelled out, "Hey, buddy, if you don't like romantic sap, could ya keep it down a little?"
Isaiah sighed. "Looks like they're waking up. Yes, I drank it all."
At the same time, a dazed agent did a foxtrot out of the room before the doctor grabbed her and put her back on her bed.
Isaiah rubbed his forehead but lay down obediently. "Such is the PPC. Arrives when most needed, and when most unwelcome."
"Yeah, we'd better keep it down." She pulled up a chair next to the bed. "So, how are you getting on with the Uncommon Comma?"
Isaiah yawned. "I'm not getting on with him. I'm staying way, way out of his reach." He shook his head. "I can't really blame him, but yeesh, we can't stand it any more than he can. One of these days, we'll cheer him up and get him back on our good side. In the meantimeaaaugh...." He yawned again.
"I'll bet he takes all the errors rather personally." Quen pulled up a blanket.
He gave Quen a wan smile. "I'm sure he does."
"You need your sleep."
"Yes, yes. G'night, dear friend, close comrade, lovely lady."
Quen kissed his forehead as his eyes fluttered shut. "Sleep well, sweetie."
The End
Continue to Mission 9
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Ambling down the labyrinth of corridors, Agent Isaiah couldn't help but bang into several walls on his way to the PPC lounge. Normally, he would just imagine that he was going to a different destination than the one he was actually trying to reach, but residual trauma from a recent PPCing distracted him. In his new mindset, he had to shut his eyes tightly in order to reach the right place. Finally, a whiff of Bleepka reached his nostrils and he knew he had arrived.
Quen was waiting for him, work piled up on her lap, as always.
"How's the PPC's favorite secretary been lately?" Isaiah greeted her.
Quen smiled. "Quite well, thanks. I've got a strange new mission I'm supposed to do..." she brushed the matter aside. "How've you been?"
Isaiah shrugged. "Eh, okay. Mara's not letting me go into the Lord of the Rings fandom anymore." He mumbled, "Well, okay, I refused to go into that fandom anymore. I think she's brooding a lot, waiting for a mission to come her way."
"I don't blame you. The Lord of the Rings fandom is a...how to phrase this politely? A real pain."
"To put it plainly, there are only a couple of really heroic, virtuous people in Pirates of the Caribbean," Isaiah explained. "Lord of the Rings, on the other hand, contains most of my childhood idols."
Quen said comfortingly, "So it's worse, isn't it?"
"Mmm." He looked melancholic. "Lots of the Pirates characters are terrific, but it's different."
Quen had shifted over one space so that he could sit down. "Star Trek was hard for me since I'm from there, so I know how things are supposed to go. But I never heard of Lord of the Rings until I came to the PPC." She clutched a copy of the Silmarillion to her chest, and one of her papers fluttered to the floor.
Isaiah retrieved it at once and handed it to her. "For example, Jack as a rapist is way out of character, but it's not the same as making Boromir or Aragorn a rapist."
Quen shuddered. "Gah!"
It had been a while since the secretary had tried PPC field work.
Isaiah continued. "Contrary to fanfiction, Norrington's not a vile official who can't see past his rulebook, but if he were made the fangirls' villain, it wouldn't be the same as vilifying Elrond or Imrahil."
"He doesn't have the same kind of history or the same kind of emotional meaning," Quen finished.
"Exactly. Why tear down Boromir or Aragorn like that?"
"It doesn't make any sense to me, either." Quen sighed. "Do you want to get some supper, Isaiah?"
"Sure, why not?"
Quen took his arm accordingly.
Then Isaiah frowned. "Wait, I remember why not. Stupid PPC cafeteria, never serves anything good."
"True."
He grinned. "But anything for you, Quen."
Quen returned his smile. Isaiah put his hand on the small of Quen's back and gently escorted her in. Unfortunately, as an idea hit Quen, she stopped walking, which caused Isaiah's arm to bend backward. He nearly lost his balance while Quen mused, "Unless you want to go to Quark's? Or another fictional eatery?"
Isaiah thought for a moment. "What does the PPC lounge serve in the evenings?"
"You know, I honestly don't know. I think they have a lot of alcohol."
"Alcohol's no good on an empty stomach. Plus, I'm not 21 yet, and the only alcohol I've had was when the DTE went on a 'business trip' to the Caribbean, and again when you and I went out to dinner on the Interceptor. Eh, let's see what the cafeteria has, anyway."
"All right." Together, they stepped into the busily buzzing cafeteria. It took a split second for Isaiah to realize that the entire cafeteria would see that they were in close contact. He debated internally for a moment-he and Quen were partial to a private relationship-and shrugged off his bashfulness. "Here you go, Quen." He handed her a mug.
"Oh, thank you!" Quen slipped out from under his arm to take a steaming cup of coffee.
"Careful, it's hot!"
Quen almost dropped the cup, but caught herself (and it) and went over to the nearest table. Isaiah got his own coffee and, in watching Quen move past him to a seat, forgot that he held a hot beverage and spilled a bit down his front. "Jacoby's bones!" he swore, forgetting himself for a moment as he lapsed into pirate lingo.
"Oh, no!" Quen was too concerned for him to notice the change in diction. "Let me get you a towel." She rummaged through a plothole.
Isaiah started to shiver as his shirt turned cold and icky.
"Here!" Quen handed Isaiah a towel with the Disneyland logo on it. She blinked at the picture of Snow White on the towel. "Yikes. Oh, well, I suppose she's not as Suvian as some." She began to pat at the wet splotch in the middle of his shirt.
"No, no, Snow White's quite sweet," Isaiah said disarmingly. "Now, Ariel is Sueish. Hoo boy." He ticked off traits with his fingers. "Beautiful. Big blue eyes. Unusual-colored hair: fiery red. Has fiery spirit. Falls in love with stock character, Marty Stu Prince Eric. Is rebellious against her oppressive father who just doesn't understand her. Wants a life of adventure in a different world."
"Has Cute Animal Friends. Angsts," Quen helpfully filled in.
"Is young and stick-thin, yet with ample bosom. AND she possesses an enthralling singing voice!" the male agent finished.
"And how stereotyped is the bad guy?" Quen asked. "The octopus woman...what's her name?"
"Ursula," Isaiah replied. "She is actually a cool villain. But in the end, she blows it all away for the cliché line, 'So much for True Love!'" He winced. "Those are her last words. And as if that weren't enough...she violates canon!" He nodded in response to Quen's questioning look. "The original Hans Christian Andersen fable had the Little Mermaid dying and becoming a spirit of the air."
This piece of human historical trivia fascinated Quen. "Really?" Pause. "But she ends up with the prince in the movie, right?"
He nodded again. "Yup. It has a Happily Ever After ending in the movie."
"I think that must be the sort of thing that inspires Suvian authors. Especially if they're exposed to it at a young age, before they read, oh, something like Tolkien." She sipped her coffee. "Hmmm. Shall we try the pizza? The meat looks almost identifiable."
"Yes, that's strange." Isaiah got in line for the food, or what passed for it in PPC HQ. "I'm sure Sherlock Holmes himself couldn't figure out what was in some of our food. Or 'Sherlock Homes,' as the case may be." The name brought back memories of his day PPCing Shay Leigh Turner and the Seven Sues.
Quen chuckled. "It's almost worse when it does look good. Because then you wonder what the cooks are up to." She gingerly tried a slice of her pizza.
"True." Isaiah thought for a moment. "We could look on the bright side by saying that perhaps the cooks found a new dish from a different universe."
As soon as the words left his mouth, Quen made a very, very strange face.
Not wanting to know what she had tasted, Isaiah cautiously took in a forkful of meat.
"That's extremely optimistic of you, Isaiah."
Isaiah munched reflectively. "Hmm, vis ishn't dat bad. How's the piz-"
He keeled over.
Quen rushed to his side. "Ack! Agent down! Isaiah! Speak to me!"
"Mmmmble..." Isaiah's eyelids spasmed for a moment. "Sisdgjlsadfthatwasaprettygoodsteakarr."
"It's worse than I thought--he still likes it!" Quen yelled to the bystanders.
"Morenicesteak, Quen?" Isaiah slurred groggily.
"Er, ah....no, thank you, sweetie."
The male agent tried to roll over and failed miserably. Quen turned him over gently. To a nearby agent, "Should we induce vomiting, do you think?"
For an answer, Isaiah coughed.
"It seems we have no choice." Agent Black had arrived on the scene. "And if worst comes to worst, you might have to administer the Heimlich maneuver."
Quen blushed, then patted Isaiah on the back. The agent hiccupped and his head lolled to one side.
"Gently, now."
"Unh." Isaiah coughed. "What was in that stuff?" He coughed again.
Quen gave him a few gentle thumps on the back. "Water?" she asked, reaching for a glass.
Isaiah waved it away. "No thanks, pro'ly couldn't keep it down. Hmm, is that Bleepka?" He glanced at a bottle that an agent he didn't know had given to Quen.
"It's diluted Bleepka," she answered. "Half soda water, I think."
He nodded wearily. "Say, Quen, are you seeing green Sue monsters, too? They're dancing over the drink machines."
Quen blinked. "I think I'm the only green person here. But there is a striped hat on top of the drink machines. Can you sit up?"
"Mph. Think so." He groaned and managed to get himself into a sitting position.
Quen propped him up. "Poor baby."
Dr. Fitzgerald had finally arrived.
"I hope you dragged me down her for something worthwhile," he said, briskly laying down a thin case and pulling out what looked like a tricoder. "I have three post-traumatic-stress patients waiting, and one that's been dunked in glitter--oh." He bent down and examined Isaiah. "Hmm. Just what was in that pizza?"
"I'm not quite sure," Quen replied. "It looked like Bolian sausage, but...?"
Isaiah shook his head. "Wasn't the pizza. It was the meat. Mmmgoodmeat."
Quen looked worried.
"Hold still, young man," the doctor ordered. He scanned the agent with the tricorder while Quen filled another glass with Bleepka mix.
After some time, the doctor made his diagnosis. "Fascinating. You seem to have a life form growing inside your stomach, Agent."
"What kind of lifeform?!" Quen asked, alarmed.
The doctor nodded towards the Bleepka bottle. "I'd save that for yourself, Agent Quen. He shouldn't ingest any fluids for at least 18 hours."
Quen wasted no time in quaffing the Bleepka herself.
"We'll feed him intravenously," the doctor continued.
"'S okay...don't worry about me, Quen," Isaiah said, putting on what he hoped was a brave face.
The secretary muttered. "We should have gone to Quark's." She kissed the side of his head. "Don't worry. We'll take care of you."
"The life form is unlike any other I have seen," the doctor announced. "It has some very interesting appendages."
"Oh, that's good, then," said Quen with a touch of sarcasm. "I mean, that means you can figure it out in the next twenty minutes of the episode, right?"
"Right after these messages," he said dryly.
"Except that we're not in a Trek episode. Right. Appendages, you said?"
All of a sudden, the doctor stood up. "Aha! Agent Quen, I think we have a very special form of grammasite."
"What's that?" Isaiah interrupted.
"A fictional parasite that feeds on books-I really wonder what was in that steak. It's from the Jurisfiction universe." Dr. Fitzgerald regarded Quen gravely. "Weren't you thinking of opening negotiations with Thursday Next?"
"Yes, the Daisy asked me to try to set up a footnoterphone link. But Isaiah didn't even know about that!"
"I'm afraid he didn't need to."
"...Wait. Is this an exclamation-point eater?"
"No, this one seems to like tildes," he answered.
"Really?" Quen quirked an eyebrow. "Do we even have tildes around here? I know how they clog up the username registry..."
The doctor wasn't listening, having begun a brisk interrogation. "I'm going to need a record of all of your last missions, Agent Isaiah."
"But I haven't gone on any missions," the agent protested. "I've just been helping spork Sues at the PotC Mary Sue report."
"You just came back from a Lord of the Rings mission, didn't you?"
"No, I didn't just come back." Isaiah felt he was entitled to stretch the truth a little. "It was awhile ago."
"Ahh."
Seeing they were getting nowhere, the doctor raised his voice so that the rest of the cafeteria could hear him. "Does anyone have a computer console on hand? I want to look at the Sue report. That report, along with a combination of whatever strange chemical they used to make the steak tastier, might have created this monstrosity."
"I've got a computer in my office," volunteered the secretary. "It's linked up with nearly all the HQ systems. Do we need to take Isaiah to Medical, though?"
"We can't do anything for him there until we know exactly what it looks like. Besides, all of the beds are taken. You agents are certainly susceptible to a high rate of unusual illnesses. Don't worry. I can interface with the computer from here."
While the doctor was investigating the files, Quen took off her jacket and draped it around Isaiah's shoulders in an effort to make him more comfortable.
After a while, the doctor made a satisfied sound. "Agent Isaiah, I think you have an 'oppartunnities' growing in your stomach. Thankfully, it hasn't had enough time to multiply and take on the plural form."
"Oppartunnities? Is that caused by the mispeling vyrus?" Quen asked.
Isaiah seemed to recognize the word. "Oh, great. It had to be that one."
"What happened, Isaiah?" Quen asked.
"It was that Sue report where the author 'didn't even watch the movie!'" He coughed.
"Pirates of the Caribbean, then?" she asked, for clarification.
"Uh-huh."
Quen remembered. "Oh, yes...that one. But how'd it get into the meat?"
"I'm afraid that the life form just had to wait for the... opportune moment...to strike," the doctor explained. "Oppartunnities are like that. They specialize in coincidence."
Quen's palm met her face. "Can you remove it?"
"The Heimlich maneuver should do it. But first, we should coat his mouth and throat with a Sue-blocking substance. Either Bleepto-dismal or Anti-Lustin will do."
"The Bleepto-Dismal might help with the nausea, too."
"Good point. I'll hop back to my office and get a-oh." The doctor turned to Agent Hellga, who had a bottle of Bleepto-Dismal on hand. Quen was just about to offer her own bottle, but put it back in her bag. "Thank you. I forgot that agents carry their remedies everywhere they go." He disinfected a small butter brush from the kitchens, dipped it into the Bleepto-Dismal, and coated Isaiah's throat.
"Arglemph!" he exclaimed. "'At tickles!"
"Hold still, please."
Quen gagged sympathetically. "He's almost done, Isaiah."
"Now, Quen, can you perform the Heimlich maneuver?" the doctor asked while he continued swabbing.
Quen braced her nerves. "I'll try."
"I won't be able to assist you--I'll be extracting the life form."
Quen winced. "All right." She clasped her arms about Isaiah's waist.
Isaiah looked down at her hands folded across his stomach. "Y'know, this isn't a half bad remedy-hyaulk!" Quen had squeezed just at that moment. A good bit of gagging and dry heaves ensued, with Quen trying her best to hold him upright.
"We'll just have to do this some other time," Quen murmured.
Isaiah convulsed twice. A lowercase "o" emerged from his throat.
"There's the head," the doctor said tersely. "One more go should do it."
Quen looked sickened.
The doctor held the oppartunnity's head with one hand and pulled at its body with forceps. Quen's alien skin went from green to chartreuse as Isaiah disgorged the rest of the misspelling.
"Long words don't like to come out," the doctor informed them. He poked the oppartunnity, which was wriggling on the floor, trying to get at the doctor.
"You okay?" Quen asked Isaiah.
He gulped uncertainly. "I think so."
Quen edged herself and Isaiah away from the grammasite.
In a trice, all the agents in the cafeteria, trained to attack bad grammar, came forward and took turns bashing the "oppartunnity" into the floor. Quen attempted to escape the fray, but didn't quite make it. "Ow! That's my-" she pulled out the remote activator and opened a portal to Medical.
Thwocked on the head with textbooks and dismembered with scalpel-sharp knives, the grammasite was quickly flattened.
"I wouldn't want to be that critter right now," the secretary said ruefully as the portal grew.
Isaiah struggled to protect Quen from the PPC mob. Unfortunately, he still wasn't feeling well enough. Quen saw what he was doing and dragged him towards the portal. "Come on, this is no time for heroics."
"Well, I think that's solved," said the doctor calmly. "I'll accompany you to Medical. Mr. Dafydd should have his head back on straight by the time I get there, and we'll be able to put him up in a cot for the night. In the meantime, I don't suppose you would mind staying with him?"
"No, not at all," said Quen immediately. She had gone into worried-protector mode.
Together, they stepped through the glittering blue doorway.
"Good," the doctor said. "Thank you for your help, Agent Quen. I'll contact his partner and let her know that he's indisposed at the moment." He paused. "One more thing."
"Yes?"
The doctor handed Isaiah a cup of replicated Pink Stuff and two breath mints. "Pink Stuff first, then breath mints, then rest."
Quen's eyes widened. "Isn't the Pink Stuff toxic?"
"Only on an empty stomach. It does cause some drowsiness. Also, it will cleanse him of whatever has been in his system."
Quen nodded. "All right. You said no other fluids?"
"Correct, but that was when the life form was in him and I was unsure whether I'd be able to extract it. He'll be able to have a glass of water at 0:300 hours. Make sure to wake him."
"I will," said the secretary resolutely. "C'mon, Isaiah. Is there an empty bed yet?"
The doctor nodded. "I'll be back in a moment. I'm mixing more medicine for Annamaria the Misspelled Monkey. She got a whiff of Sue-essence: lavender and jasmine. Terrible stuff." He tapped Agent Dafydd's forehead. "Sir, you may go. I would suggest moving your neck as little as possible until your next mission."
Dafydd nodded, then reluctantly got up, head nodding like a bobble-head doll. Quen tried not to imagine just what could have happened to him.
After a while, Isaiah spoke. "Sure is quiet in here." He looked around. "All the other agents seem to be sleeping or comatose. Poor guys."
"How are you feeling?" she asked anxiously.
"Much better." He grinned mischievously. "In fact..." he popped in a breath mint "...I feel absolutely perfect."
Without warning, he pulled Quen into a passionate kiss.
Quen's eyes went wide. She was happy yet surprised, as Isaiah wasn't usually this demonstrative.
"You're my darling, you know that?" he said brazenly.
"Mmm...er...yes?" Did the Pink Stuff go to his head?
"Thanks for looking out for me."
Somewhat puzzled, Quen replied, "You're welcome. Are you sure you're feeling okay?"
Isaiah sighed contentedly. "I just realized that, if at any time, I die of a grammar-related illness, you should know how much I admire and adore you."
Quen laughed, slightly embarrassed. "All right."
The DTE agent smiled. "Hope you didn't mind." He looked worried as he slipped back into his old bashful habits. "I mean, it was kind of an off the top of my head thing...and I dunno if it was okay, I'm not really experienced at this sort of thing..."
"Not at all, my heroic knight!" Quen interjected half-seriously. She hugged him gently. "That makes two of us."
Isaiah returned the gesture. "Hey. Thanks."
Quen didn't have to ask what he meant. "You're very welcome, and you'd do the same for me."
"Without hesitation." He paused. "Am I really heroic?"
"Yes, you are. How many people would willingly go up against You!Sues, hey?"
He shuddered. "I hate romantic sap. I hate romantic sap. I hate romantic sap. I'm not too sentimental when I'm courting you, am I?" he asked suddenly.
"I don't think you are," said Quen honestly.
"Oh, good." He softly kissed her cheek. Quen returned the kiss.
"All right. Lie down. Did you take the Bleepto-Dismal?"
From somewhere in the rows of beds, an agent yelled out, "Hey, buddy, if you don't like romantic sap, could ya keep it down a little?"
Isaiah sighed. "Looks like they're waking up. Yes, I drank it all."
At the same time, a dazed agent did a foxtrot out of the room before the doctor grabbed her and put her back on her bed.
Isaiah rubbed his forehead but lay down obediently. "Such is the PPC. Arrives when most needed, and when most unwelcome."
"Yeah, we'd better keep it down." She pulled up a chair next to the bed. "So, how are you getting on with the Uncommon Comma?"
Isaiah yawned. "I'm not getting on with him. I'm staying way, way out of his reach." He shook his head. "I can't really blame him, but yeesh, we can't stand it any more than he can. One of these days, we'll cheer him up and get him back on our good side. In the meantimeaaaugh...." He yawned again.
"I'll bet he takes all the errors rather personally." Quen pulled up a blanket.
He gave Quen a wan smile. "I'm sure he does."
"You need your sleep."
"Yes, yes. G'night, dear friend, close comrade, lovely lady."
Quen kissed his forehead as his eyes fluttered shut. "Sleep well, sweetie."
The End
Continue to Mission 9
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