(no subject)
Continuing with the belated updates of our archive:
In the first part of this inter-mission time for Mara and Isaiah, the intrepid PPCers tour the Official Fanfiction University of the Caribbean Islands, where fangirls learn, through pain, to be better authors. Tomorrow, I'll post the second part: the Sue smiting. Questions, comments, criticism welcome!
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The tattered sign on the door to the Department of Personnel shifted askew as Isaiah knocked on the door briskly. He blinked twice at the sign, then carefully inched it back to where it belonged. There was no answer, so after a moment’s hesitation, he surreptitiously opened the door.
“Hi, 'tis Isaiah. Just popping in. I thought, well, it might be difficult to talk in the corridors.”
He paused. Apparently, he had spoken too quietly.
“Quen?” he ventured, louder this time.
Quen looked up from her paperwork. “Hey! I’ve just finished confirming the recruitment of your head of Linguistics Division. He had to be hired out, since he’s now a worker at the Official Fanfiction University of the Caribbean Islands, but I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“You sure?” Isaiah countered with a slight smirk. “The last time you found us personnel, I became subordinate to a giant piece of punctuation and a grandma who’s slightly off her rocker.”
Quen blushed, taking the comment more seriously than it had been intended. “If you have any complaints, I can-“
Isaiah held up his hand, laughing. “Don’t fret. I’ve never had so interesting a time in my life.”
The secretary matched his smile. “HQ is an eventful place, however uncomfortable and perilous it might also be.”
Isaiah nodded, thinking back to the other day and Techno Dann’s squirting of a Sue’d Agent Ginger with a water gun filled with an anti-Sue serum. The PPC lounge in particular was an interesting place to be. It was too bad that he and Quen barely saw each other there, even though he had often stopped by to see if she was relaxing. The last time they had talked together had been several days ago. Isaiah had given her a quick embrace on their way out. He hadn’t told Mara; it was a very private affection. He wasn’t sure if she would laugh at him or not.
When Quen had summoned him here via a memo left under his door, he assumed that it was business related, but he couldn’t help wondering. Now that he knew it was certainly official, he wasn’t sure what to say.
“Um...so...” Isaiah tried to collect his thoughts.
“Yes?” prodded Quen.
“I’ve come to return my profile. Everything looks great.”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
Agent Quen neatly slipped an ID card into a file folder. “I hope you and Mara haven't had troubles with the recent Sue invasion?”
“No, we've been fine.” Isaiah pounced on the subject. “It's funny, but the PotC section doesn't seem to be affected.”
“Good, good,” said Agent Quen in relief. “I found Her name in the files, but other than that, I've been all right. Jaycacia, that is. The Sue outbreak probably stays in Lotrverse.”
“You can come to our division if you need sanctuary,” Isaiah offered.
Agent Quen smiled. “Thanks. By the way, I did get a copy of that book we were talking about. Could I could bring it by the DTE some time?”
Isaiah’s heart leaped. “Sure! Do you like reading indoors or outdoors?”
“Depends if it's sunny or not!” Quen grinned. “...Wait...outdoors? Does the PPC have an outdoors?” she frowned.
An idea dawned on him. “Since I need to go to OFUCI to pick up staffing for Linguistics Division, we might read there,” Isaiah elaborated. “There's a lovely view of the Atlantic from the bow of the newly-resurrected Interceptor.”
“Ahh!” Quen said, understanding. She tapped her chin with a pencil. “If Bleeprin has Gravol-like properties, I'm good to go. Otherwise, I get seasick easily.”
“Don't worry,” Isaiah said quickly. “I think it's moored. Unlike the Black Pearl, it's small enough to fit near the docks. Miss Merc resurrected it, I believe, after some fangirls tried to commandeer the Dauntless...it didn’t go over well. I'll see about renting a fainting couch for us to sit on. The deck's not a terribly comfortable place.”
“That sounds great,” said Quen wistfully. “I haven't seen the sun in quite some time, not since I gave up field work.”
“So...you’ll come?”
“Of course!”
The male agent took a deep breath.
“I'll see you there, then...around what time? Sunset is rather late...”
“We could have dinner aboard the ship,” the secretary suggested.
“Lovely.”
Quen carefully sealed an envelope. “All right, shall I meet you at your office, or should I try to find my way to OFUCI?”
“No, come to the office,” said Isaiah in a detached voice. He felt very odd, as if he had drunk a large quantity of Bleepka. “I'll meet you there. If Mara's around, I'll tell her to bugger off. Politely, of course.”
It must be admitted that the DTE agent, normally unpretentious except during PPCing, swaggered quite a bit on the way to his office. His ecstatic mood last all the way until dinnertime, when he found out that the cafeteria was serving tofu and ketchup with black pears on the side, in honor of the mini-fruit from Pirates of the Caribbean. Isaiah pursed his lips and hoped that the other agents didn’t hate him too much for bringing that cursed technical error to their attention.
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“Even the mini-Balrogs were fed better today-Beef Stu was their soup du jour,” Mara complained as soon as Isaiah walked in the door. She had not been expecting him; consequently, she was busily cleaning her pistol.
Isaiah tossed the sheaf of paperwork Mara’s way. The papers fluttered near her tin of polish. She wiped her hands on the cleaning rag and shuffled the papers back into order. While Isaiah mulled over what to wear to his first real date in PPC Headquarters, his partner gave the papers a cursory glance and leaned on her elbows thoughtfully.
“I suppose I should fetch him,” Mara said at last. “OFUCI is a hazardous place to be if you don’t know your way around. You could get caught in a fangirl stampede, trying to get Barbosa out.”
Isaiah was puzzled. “You’ve visited before?”
“Not exactly.” Mara stood up and slid the papers into her backpack. “I’ve been to OFUM twice, and I assume this fanfiction university has a similar layout. Once you’ve been to a fanfiction university, you get to recognize the warning signs of stampedes fast. Also, I’ve heard the Misspelled Monkeys are vicious, attacking even the canonicals.”
“I can manage,” said Isaiah, on the defensive before he realized that if Mara went to OFUCI separately, he could spend more time alone with Quen. “But if you really think you should go, I’m not stopping you,” he added quickly.
Mara stared hard at Isaiah. Her younger partner was not one to admit that he wasn’t up to a task. Always playing the hero, he usually insisted that he could handle any dire situation as well as the next PPCer. Sometimes, he was right. Sometimes. She decided to let the matter rest.
“No sense delaying,” she said brightly. It probably involves Quen; nearly everything involves her when Isaiah acts, well, out of character, as it were.
Part of Mara’s cheerfulness was forced, but there was an undercurrent of real excitement that she could not quite quench. She might get to see one of the canonicals-the real canon characters, and not the twisted souls to which she had become accustomed.
This did not escape Isaiah’s notice, for he read into her mind almost as easily as she had guessed his. When one has been through a considerable amount of horror and brain damage with another agent, one can see a partner's thoughts more clearly than most.
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Arm resolutely around Quen’s shoulder, Isaiah strolled into the boundaries of the Official Fanfiction University of the Caribbean Islands. The guard at the door, who happened to be Bo’sun, frowned at his claim to be a PPC agent, and for a moment Isaiah felt Quen tense as he contemplated reaching for his grapnel hook. Isaiah’s ID card made no difference to a pirate who couldn’t read. Then a tremor had run through Bo’sun at the ghost of a memory of being talked down to by Lauren, the insolent fangirl. It was Isaiah who had helped him get rid of the girl and revert back to his old self. The PPCers were allowed in without a word.
“I couldn’t think of a better way to spend an evening,” Quen reassured him. “It’ll be wonderful, you just wait. Besides,” and she nudged him in the ribs, “it was nice to know that your credentials are acceptable here. I wonder if any other canonicals remember you?”
“Probably not,” Isaiah said frankly. It occurred to him that perhaps Elizabeth Swann had. He squashed that thought and hugged Quen closer.
Isaiah had always thought that the Caribbean sea depicted on all the travel brochures was digitally enhanced somehow. No water could be that clear, fading into turquoise and then into the deepest sapphire blue, lapping over soft white sands. Now that he was sure that he was under no illusion, Isaiah sighed contentedly. It was grace embodied, sparkling and multihued and beautiful and dangerous...and he simply loved it, because it was just what it was, with no pretense of any power that it did not possess.
It was some time before he could compel himself to break away and delve into The Well of Lost Plots, which he found thoroughly enjoyable once he got into it. It was, as Quen had said, startlingly PPCish: the heroine, Thursday Next, sought to stop her archenemy from meddling with the plotlines of books. Books were alive in this world, and needed to be protected. He had smiled when he had read the Kirkus review’s assessment: “Like anchovies, Wagner, and Helmut Newton: will greatly appeal to people with unusual tastes-and befuddle everyone else.” That sounded like the PPC all right.
They had progressed to around page thirty, with Quen reading one chapter and Isaiah the next, when the female agent’s voice faltered. She stood up, rather shakily on the rocking ship it must be admitted, and gripped the larboard railing. The sun dropped lower on the horizon, and the ocean at once lost its fathoms. The colors swam so brightly across his vision that Isaiah almost expected a sheet of blue flame to join the brilliant golden light. Now the sun had sunk and the whole world was golden for a moment before fading into grey and mauve. Night fell-abruptly, since they were now closer to the equator. Isaiah was loath to go inside, now that he had enjoyed the fresh sea air as distinct from the stifling and stale Headquarters’.
“I’m getting a bit seasick,” Quen confessed at last, after a few stars had studded the sky. Isaiah nodded wordlessly, realized that Quen couldn’t see him in the dark, and said, “That’s all right; I’m ready for a tour of the below decks OFUCI. You?”
“Quite.” Quen sounded like she was smothering amusement. “Um, Isaiah, that’s a really nice shirt you have on, you know.”
That was an odd thing to say in the midst of near-blackness. Isaiah let go his hold on Quen and faced her. “It’s just my PPC shirt. Can you see well at night, then?”
A few fingers tugged at his right sleeve. Isaiah looked down at where his departmental logo would have been. It was still visible. Radiantly so.
“The he-ck?” Isaiah pulled at his shirt in astonishment and disguised his near-swear with a cough-he was with Quen, after all. “They sent me a glow-in-the-dark shirt?”
“Must be a new feature,” Quen suggested.
“But why would they test it on our emblem?” Isaiah wondered. “Our symbol’s the red pen. Red. This thing glows whitish green. Ah, well. They probably wanted to experiment on mine, with me being a new agent and all.”
“Well, if that’s true, I suppose that’s mild compared to what some organizations have recruits go through. You glow, anyway, in the daytime,” she said, “with that hair of yours. I’m afraid you’re destined to be visible.”
“Oh, am I?”
“It’s not a bad trait on you,” she said, half-seriously.
He laughed giddily, wondering if there were even a dozen Mary Sues that could erase this evening from his memory.
Hand in hand, they walked toward the stairwell, realized that they couldn’t step side by side down the narrow opening, and broke apart reluctantly. Isaiah had reached the fourth step from the bottom when his stomach growled.
“Aww, Quen! We forgot to have dinner!”
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Mara was met at the entrance to OFUCI by the canonical harbormaster, who was now sitting at a writing desk perched on the dock near the Interceptor. His quill quivered as he hurriedly jotted down the information for an incoming student, who grabbed her paper in a huff and hurried off. Mara was reminded oddly of Isaiah reading his parchment to exasperated Sues.
“Your application, if you please?” he said neutrally, upon hearing Mara’s footstep.
“Oh, I’m not applying to be a student, I just need to-”
The harbormaster looked up with a face that brooked no arguments. He was apparently used to reluctant applicants. “In case you didn’t hear or comprehend me the first time, I require your entry papers.”
Mara sighed, took out her red pen, and filled out a form.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Name: Agent Mara
Gender: Female
Age: 20
Lust Object: Canon
Favorite Ship: Black Pearl
Favorite 'ship: Captain Jack/Black Pearl
Affiliation: PPC agent. Disguise generator will supply whatever uniform is necessary. (Default disguise is a serving girl outfit.)
Recreational Clubs (please select just one): Apple Fanciers Anonymous, Yes We Are Fetishists Thank You Very Much
Have you ever written a Mary Sue: Not in published fanfiction and not since I became a PPCer.
Have you ever written a slash fanfic: No
Canonical Beverage of Choice: Other (please specify) Ale or “rhum” - the mini-beverage that makes one talk like Captain Jack
What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen Sparrow: If shot out of the Canon Cannon, 83 mph. If sprouting wings as the result of an unfortunate Sue-ish metaphor (see Agent Jira and Agent Shmuckleigh’s PPC log, chapter one), 24 mph.
Fear of (select all that apply): Other (please specify)
Emerald green eyes, multiple exclamation points, “Grammer”, and unnaturally heaving bosoms
One word to describe yourself: Nitpicking
Why do you wish to attend this university? I don’t. I’m simply trying to get by Mr. Easily Influenced at the front desk here. I’ve come to retrieve Barbosa, our new head of Linguistics Division.
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The harbormaster looked it over. He settled his glasses more firmly on his nose in bewilderment.
“PPC?” he said in disbelief. “We haven’t had any PPC visits here. Miss Merc told us about the assassins, but some of us aren’t convinced they exist. If they do, they must be slow about their jobs.”
Mara lost her grip on her temper. She hadn’t the time for this! “For your information, there are eight PPCers for this entire fandom, which, as I believe you know, consists of 6000 stories, conservatively. Of those eight, two are on hiatus, two are still in training, and two are newbies. They’ve PPC’d only one fic so far, and though it was a very good start, Isaiah and I are the only active, experienced PPCers for Pirates of the Caribbean.”
“Open your bag,” he said stiffly in reply.
The female agent pulled out her bag, realizing that she truly should have sent Isaiah. Being male, he would never have had this much hassle entering OFUCI at all, let alone the Staff Section.
Mara reached in her bag and pulled out her Character Analysis Device, a variation of the regular CADs. She had taken it to OFUCI as a useful tool for discerning between the students who applied to be pirates and the actual pirates themselves.
[Harbormaster. Canon. Male. OFUCI staff,] the Character Analysis Device flashed. The gentleman stared at the device.
Mara then took out her stack of correction pens, her clipboard with paper, five bottles of Bleeprin, a small flask of Pink Stuff that she had managed to garner from GreyLadyBast, her dictionary (Isaiah had borrow the thesaurus), a pair of newly-acquired Glopsnerch earmuffs, a bar of chocolate, a small compass, a sachet of doubloons, and the replica of Captain Jack’s gun, which she had stowed in there so as not to arouse suspicion.
The man blinked.
“ExCUSE me,” a sweetly stinging voice barged in from behind Mara. “I think you’d better hurry up. I forgot to fill something in on my application, and Dictatress Thalia said that I had to change it.”
Mara looked behind her. To the impartial eye, there stood a student who had most likely been informed by a friend that you became whatever affiliation you put down on your application. She was dressed in the ballooning skirt of a fine lady, though it was now quite bedraggled from lessons. Her hair was silver with golden streaks in it, and her eyes flashed violet threateningly.
In that instant, Mara forgot that she was at OFUCI, forgot that she was supposed to act composed so that she could get her application through, and ignored the notion that the figure behind her was a student and not-
“MARY SUE!”
Mara picked up the nearest heavy object-her CAD, in this case-and hurled it.
“Begone!”
Thwock!
“AAAH!”
“What in God’s name are you-”
Mara reached for her pistol, but the harbormaster had retrieved it first. He cocked the weapon and pointed it at Mara, who ignored him and flew at the student in a tackle.
“Heeelp!”
The middle-aged man pressed the trigger and found that the weapon wasn’t loaded. “Damn and blast!”
“WHAT is going on?!” cried the outraged voice of Dictatress Thalia. Seeing only a flurry of arms, legs and cumbersome skirts, the Dictatress decided to sic the Misspelled Monkeys on the two combatants, whom she assumed were students having a catfight.
Chattering deviously, the monkeys leaped in the direction of the scuffle. One of them, having jumped from Miss Thalia’s shoulder to the counter upon which sat the PPC possessions, halted and screeched something to its fellow monkeys. They paused just as Commodore Norrington entered, looking slightly put out.
“Jeanine, I expected you in my class five minutes ag-”
The spat stopped abruptly. Mara, having pinned the sparkly-eyed maiden to the dock, looked up at Norrington.
“Jeanine?” she asked, the truth dawning on her. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry,” she said to Norrington, letting the hapless fangirl up. “This is a student?”
“I’m afraid so,” Norrington answered regretfully. He furrowed his brows. “And who might you be?” he queried peremptorily.
The Misspelled Monkey who seemed to be in charge chattered something to Norrington, who looked confused until the monkey pointed to the items on the writing desk. He took a small bottle from the pile and examined it.
“Bleeprin?”
“She’s PPC,” Thalia explained. “Mara, welcome. I hope she didn’t damage your uniform.”
Mara dusted herself off. “Nothing that can’t be mended, rather sloppily, between missions.” She inclined her head briefly in Norrington’s direction. “Agent Mara, Protectors of the Plot Continuum, Department of Technical Errors. I’m honored to meet you, sir.”
He looked faintly astonished. “I was wondering if you were working in our story. I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of you in any fic involving myself.”
“I did tell all of the sailors that I didn’t believe they existed,” the harbormaster put in triumphantly.
“The PPC is real enough,” Norrington informed him crisply. “Just a bit overworked, I surmise. I’ve met agents Jira and Shmuckleigh on two occasions. They helped rid me of two female parasites who claimed to be my sisters.”
Mara nodded. “We’ve a badfic coming up for you, but we can’t get to it now because we’re swamped with other work. Not only are we understaffed in the PotC section, but we’re altering those PPCings with the odd fic from another world-Middle-earth. In fact, I’ll be on my way to the smiting of one such Sue after I get this business sorted out.” She gestured to the desk and her pack, which wore an odd, shriveled look now that it was, for the first time, empty. Mara was not one to come unprepared to her assassinations.
“Ahem!” announced a young woman with a bullhorn, whom Mara recognized as Miss Merc.
“I’ve just come for Barbosa,” the agent explained.
“What happened?” Mercuria asked, raising an eyebrow at Mara, the somewhat rumpled Jeanine, Norrington, and the chattering monkeys.
“I mistook this student for a Sue.” Mara shoved Jeanine none too gently in Norrington’s direction and stepped forward impatiently. “I was told that I could hire my head of Linguistics Division for the Department of Technical Errors.”
“Why would Barbossa agree to work for you?” Norrington asked. “Much less lead a...linguistics department, did you say?”
“Not the pirate captain,” Mara corrected. “The Misspelled Monkey.” At that, the lead monkey capered about, making for Mara in a somewhat roundabout way. He halted in front of her and stared up at her, scrutinizing the agent. All at once, he leapt onto her shoulder, then onto the desk, and began to collect all of the items strewn about on top. He deposited them rapidly into her backpack.
“He’s been a bit antsy the last two weeks,” Merc explained. “He loves biting the fangirls, but being one of the oldest minis, he’s been on duty guarding Captain Jack, and the stress is a bit much.”
“I understand,” said Mara sincerely, both to Miss Merc and to Barbosa. Addressing the monkey, she said, “I’ve had to guard Captain Jack for a while, too. Maybe you can give me some pointers, hey?” She fastened the flap of her backpack, saluted the headmistresses and the canonicals, and was about to walk off when she realized that her backpack felt oddly light. Dropping it swiftly and opening the top flap, she discovered that the ample bag of doubloons she had carried to the university was missing.
Mara folded her arms across her chest and frowned at the corrupt official manning the desk, who sheepishly surrendered the bag.
“Oh, that reminds me,” said Mercuria, eyeing the filched property. “The job form will require Captain Jack’s signature as well, since Barbosa is his bodyguard.”
Mara blinked. “Will he allow me to deprive him of protection against the fangirl hordes?”
“Not without compensation, of course...” Miss Merc took Mara’s papers from her and signed them. “...but he’ll be receiving aid from ‘Luitennet Norrington’ and ‘Govenner Swann’ any day now, which I think he’ll approve of. Barbosa, being a mini of Jack’s worst enemy, wasn’t too fond of the captain, proficient though he was at foiling the fangirls’ plots.”
Mara made sure that the coins were situated snugly inside her backpack and stepped jauntily out of sight, Barbosa now playing with her curly hair.
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Isaiah had paid for a replica of Barbossa’s feast to be laid out for them in the captain’s cabin. No officers were there, since it was the time between studies and bed when the students were liable to be most rambunctious and plan their most dastardly lust object trapping of the day. The rhythmic rocking of the ship was gentler here, and Quen’s stomach had settled down considerably. Nevertheless, she couldn’t restrain a giggle or two at their absentmindedness.
“How could we forget to eat such fare as this?” she asked, marveling at the variety and quality of the food. “I’ve never seen these dishes before.”
“Colonial cooking’s not exactly the specialty of the PPC kitchen staff,” Isaiah pointed out. “In fact, cooking is not the specialty of the PPC kitchen staff.” He cut the pig carefully and pared a piece off for Quen. She had already started in on her biscuit. She insisted on pouring the wine for him, cautioning him not to drink too much. This being the colonial era, there were no legal restrictions on drinking alcohol, but Isaiah hadn’t had any alcoholic beverage to speak of in his system before, so he wanted to take it easy.
They had gotten halfway through their second course when there came a harsh knock at the door. The pirates had come to retrieve their cutlery and the remainder of the food. Isaiah and Quen hastily exited and wandered above decks, where they were shown the way to another section of the university: a colonial mansion.
As soon as they had gotten through the doorway, a head poked out of a side chamber. A girl emerged, carrying a small candle. Thrusting the light in Isaiah’s eyes, she stared at him, open-mouthed. Isaiah caught a glimpse of two round brown eyes before she whisked the light away and put a hand on his shoulder. Isaiah shrugged her off just in time to miss the blinding light a second time.
“Do you mind?” he yelled.
“You-you ARE a boy!” she said breathlessly.
“And you’re a student,” Isaiah answered impatiently, “and I’m not so pleased to meet you, and I really must be off.”
“Are you a canon character?” she persisted as if she hadn’t heard him. “I think I’d have noticed if a young, attractive man like you had made his way onto set. Don’t tell me they hid you behind all those scruffy pirates!”
Isaiah scowled. “Get away from me, wench. I’m taking a tour of the university with my...” he glanced Quen’s way.
“With his girlfriend. I’m Quen,” the secretary said, moving firmly between Isaiah and the young woman.
“Uh-huh.” The girl looked Isaiah up and down. “You’re not much older than I am, are you? I’m Dawnspell,” she said cutely, using the name that she had put down on her OFUCI application.
The exchange had wakened one of Dawnspell’s roommates, who stole carefully out of the chamber, probably in fear of attracting the attention of the monkeys.
“Hi,” whispered the second young lady, “are you new students? Gee, what’d you put down on your application?” she said bluntly to Quen. “Alien?”
“Generic Star Trek Alien,” Quen corrected.
“There are no aliens in Pirates of the Caribbean,” said another sleepy voice from within the room. “Even we know that.”
“She knows,” Isaiah said gruffly. “In fact, she knows more about canon than you’ve learned all your time here, I’d wager. She’s not a student. She’s a visitor.”
“Uh huh,” answered the first girl skeptically, while the second thrust an arm out of her doorway, obviously getting a robe on. “Look, I tried that one, too. It doesn’t work. If you’re trying to sneak out...”
“We’re not trying to sneak anywhere,” said Isaiah impatiently.
“There’s not much to see, anyway,” the second girl informed them. “Just icky pirate guards and that nasty Elizabitch slinking about, trying to get back at us for liking Will.”
“You mean, for having your characters steal away Will’s heart by deceit and contrivance, usually resulting in Elizabeth being insulted or eradicated from the story?” Isaiah deadpanned. “Yeah, can’t imagine why she’d find that offensive.”
“Hey!” said Dawnspell hotly. “She doesn’t deserve him!”
“Miss Swann is both smarter and braver than all of you fangirls who, instead of having your OCs build character by weathering the harsh adventuring life, twist history, geography, and logic and bestow upon your heroines supernatural skills,” Isaiah retorted. “No matter how impossible your girls’ adventures might be, it becomes equally impossible for your glossy-haired heroines to fail. What kind of a story is that? Everything that most fans enjoyed about the movie-the characterization, the colorful cameos, and the pirates that actually act like pirates and are not mere caricatures-springs out of your Mary Sue’s way to accommodate her. The only things that remain are her lust object’s good looks, and as for those...the next time I see Captain Jack with copper eyes or mahogany skin, I’m going to skewer your Sue and shove her through your dorm window!”
The dropping of the girls’ jaws was almost audible.
“How-how dare you!” managed one.
A vein was throbbing at Isaiah’s temple. Quen grabbed hold of his shoulders to steady him, but he was past reasoning with. He had, here before him, the creatures responsible for sending him through the portal, again and again, into misery, torment and bad grammar. He was going to give them what-for.
“Your creations lack her taste and manners and common sense. If you met up with Elizabeth while at Will’s shop, she would be polite and agreeable-she was even courteous to Barbossa in the beginning, though you make her out to be a villain. Conversely, your original character struts in on the scene with nary a care for Miss Swann’s feelings, buttering up to Will and sneering at Elizabeth’s snobbishness, which she has never canonically shown despite being an aristocrat. And not only do you expect Will to fall for your Sue, but you believe that your character holds the MORAL HIGH GROUND, usurper though she is, because...why?! Because she’s pretty? Because she’s you?”
There were several murmurs at that, ranging from unhappy to slightly guilty to downright enraged. One of the girls remarked, “He likes Elizabeth, doesn’t he?”
At that, Dawnspell gave a gasp of delight. “I know what you are!”
Isaiah leaned back against the wall skeptically. “Do you indeed.”
“You’re a...a FANBOY!” she screeched at the top of her lungs.
“WHAT?!”
Immediately, several doors slammed open. Isaiah clutched Quen’s hand.
“I’m not-”
“Did you just shout that a fanboy was here?” asked a sleepy, curly-haired brunette.
“Yes! Help me wake everyone up. Iris! BelgianWaffle22!” she called to her friends. A raggedy-looking lady pirate and a Tortugan whore staggered out of their rooms and peered at Isaiah.
“I’m not a fanboy! Didn’t I just tell you that-”
“Mrs. Capt. Jack Sparrow, you too!”
“What is it?” asked four of the awakened students at once.
“No!” said the girl petulantly. “Mrs. Capt. Jack Sparrow! Not Mrs Capt Jack Sparrows, Mrs. Jack Sparrow, Mrs Sparrow, or the future Mrs. Jack Sparrow!”
The disappointed young women withdrew into their chambers.
“Let go of my arm!” Isaiah said furiously, trying to twist away from them.
“It’s okay. You’re the first fanboy that’s ever attended this university.” Mrs. Captain Jack Sparrow giggled. “You’ll probably get special favors from all of the canon cast.”
“Ooh! Ooh!” one of the girls squealed. “Can you get Jack to sign my corset?”
“It’s ‘all of the canonicals,’ or ‘the whole canon cast,’” Quen corrected automatically, stepping in front of Isaiah, who sent her both a grateful and admiring glance.
Good grammar sense, optimism and good looks, he reflected happily.
All of a sudden, the girls shrank back a bit. A few resentful murmurs passed among them.
“Well, I love Will, and I wish he were with me,” said a particularly stubborn fangirl with the name “Carlyle” tattooed on her upper arm. She said this to something over Isaiah’s shoulder. Unfortunately, he was hemmed in by girls on all sides. “Miss Swann,” she said the name like a curse, “acts like that’s a crime!”
“Your crime,” Isaiah said, an edge to his voice, “is in not recognizing the fact that Will might mean the world to you, but you are a ha’penny to him, if anything. You say that you love him. Can’t you love him enough to leave him in peace? Don’t you know that the best way to make him happy is to keep him with his one true love, whom you could never replace? I adore Miss Swann’s character, but I know that she belongs with Will, not with me or with anyone else. Will spent the entire movie trying to save her. Who am I to spit in the face of that in order to satisfy my own whims? Leave the canonical couple of PotC ALONE, for heavens’ sake! They’ve earned it!”
Enthusiastic applause came from behind him. Isaiah struggled to turn around. Someone shoved one of the girls that was trapping him aside. Judging from the girls’ nervous glances, it had to be Mara. Still, their glances showed an extraordinary amount of hatr-
“Miss Swann!” Isaiah gasped in horror. The feisty governor’s daughter was holding a torch aloft, white nightdress contrasting with the brown ensemble of Will Turner, who stood protectively beside her.
“Agent Isaiah.” Elizabeth greeted him warmly. She smiled. “I’m glad to see that you are, er, giving these girls a bit of a midnight lesson.”
“I’m terribly sorry to wake you, Miss Swann,” stammered Isaiah. “You were obviously abed. I grew angry when they-when-”
“When they insulted my honor?” she asked, with a pert grin. “Don’t worry; I was not yet abed when Will informed me that there was a commotion in the halls.”
I shall not stampede comma drool over comma or otherwise attack Lust Objects... I shall not stampede comma drool over comma or otherwise attack Lust Objects... I shall not stampede comma drool over comma or otherwise attack Lust Objects...
Aloud, he said, “It’s an outrage that they should...” Oh, Eru, I can’t think, I’m going to fall over and they’ll all laugh at me...
“Defile your reputation when you have already given up so much for Will,” Quen murmured to him.
Isaiah repeated her words without pausing to ask himself why. Elizabeth’s smile widened, and she curtsied, while Will stepped out from the shadows, clearly reluctant to expose himself to the fangirls’ sighs.
“We are deeply in your debt, Agents Isaiah and...” Will’s eyes moved to the green-skinned female.
“Oh, I’m Quen. Just Quen, the secretary,” she answered, feeling very awkward.
“She’s my real lady friend,” Isaiah said firmly. He broke eye contact with Elizabeth and looked at Will, who was trying not to grin. Isaiah opened his mouth, but closed it again and swallowed.
“Is there something you wish to say?” Will wondered, puzzled.
“Are you going to kill me?” Isaiah replied almost immediately.
“You? You, who have saved Elizabeth’s life and my sanity?” He glanced at Elizabeth. “I could think of no other defense on your behalf than what just came from you own lips, before you knew we were there,” he said honestly. “I wish you luck, and may your mind be guarded against all of their onslaughts.” His head inclined in the students’ direction.
“You saved Will’s sanity?” Dawnspell yelled in surprise.
“To be sure,” said Elizabeth, casting a glare her way. “By throwing out one of your comrades’ creations. I’d be careful around him, if I were you.” She and Will exited.
When the fangirls found out that Isaiah was an assassin working for an undercover agency, that he usually dressed in black and wielded sharp weapons as part of his job, they crowded around him.
“Oh, no,” Quen moaned.
“And look at that hair!” One girl pointed to Isaiah’s untidy mop. “He’s not a redhead, and he’s not blond.”
“Multicolored hair!” screamed another in excitement.
“It’s strawberry blond, not multicolored!” Isaiah yelled.
“He’s so cute!”
“And he has freckles!”
“Agent Isaiah, will you be staying long?”
“Can you PPC my fic? Please?”
Before he knew what was happening, they had him pinned against the wall. His PPC instinct kicked in. He grabbed Quen’s arm roughly and ducked down, head-butting the nearest teeny bopper and running headlong down the corridors. “Quickly! They won’t stop until they’ve glomped me!” The flying tackle hug, or glomp, administered by a fangirl was one of most PPC agents’ worst nightmares.
Quen ventured a look back. Fear registered in her eyes. “It looks like we have a small stampede on our hands, Agent!”
They slipped down the slick hallway, past where Jack Sparrow’s Only Love and Sparrow’s Tru Love were bickering, followed relentlessly by the squealing mass of girls in their nighties.
“Got any ideas?” Isaiah gasped.
“Who would have thought you would be the newest fangirl L.O.”? Quen gasped as she bustled down the hallway.
The fangirls had surprisingly long endurance. It appeared that they had had a lot of practice stampeding. They were gaining on the two agents, since they knew the corridors and the PPC pair did not.
They rounded a corner, and...
SCREECH! SCREECH! A ball of fur cannoned into the mass. At the same time, a large bag was swung into the mass of females and a dark form kicked the nearest girl’s feet out from under her.
Agent Mara of the PPC saw her partner and Quen running, chased by a mob of Suethors, and went to work stemming the tide. She punched, kicked, and lashed out with her pistol muzzle. They kept coming.
“Mara!” Isaiah shouted in panic. “Mara, get out of here! There are too many!”
He, Quen, and Mara sprinted towards the exit and made for the ships.
“You’ve had a bad day, too, huh?” Mara gasped as they ran along. She managed to relate the scene at the entrance to OFUCI before they reached the end of the dock.
“Have me instead of Elizabeth! I’m prettier!” the closest girl cried in desperation.
To their relief, more screeches sounded throughout the docks. The PPCers reached the nearest ship, the Interceptor, where Gillette was discussing lust object harassment penalties with Mr. Cotton. The girls poured onto the Interceptor, nearly unbalancing it. Finally, Captain Jack appeared from below decks, looking slightly exasperated.
“Can’t an honest pirate get some peace in-”
He surveyed the scene. Immediately, his cutlass was drawn and he leapt into the thick of the action. The girls, though not afraid of a grapnel hook or an empty pistol, had enough sense of self-preservation to keep away from cold steel.
“Out, and off this ship, or I’ll have your liver n’ lights.”
Now that the scare was over, Mara looked at Quen amusedly. “So that’s why Isaiah wanted to go alone to the Interceptor.”
“You don’t have to shout it out for all to hear,” muttered Isaiah, as Quen blushed a bright blue-green.
“I wasn’t,” Mara said, widening her eyes innocently. Captain Jack, meanwhile, had unleashed the Misspelled Monkeys that had been sequestered with him. Soon the deck was clear of fangirls and Suethors.
“You sure know how to handle ‘em, Captain,” Mara voiced her admiration.
Jack Sparrow picked up a small photo manipulation of Will kissing a raven-haired student, evidently dropped by one of the fangirls in the heat of the chase, and flung it overboard. “I’ve some prowess with women-even harpies, or so it seems,” he grinned. He quirked an eyebrow at Mara. “I seem to remember you and your friend from somewh-ah, o’course, Helen of Troy and her rainbow-eyed adversary.” He chuckled.
“Among other things,” Isaiah said cheerfully. Mara looked as if she wanted to say much more, even stay and carry on a conversation with the captain. Too soon she remembered her errand and slipped the forms out of her backpack, somewhat worse for the wear.
“Here. This is for you,” Mara said in a formal tone of voice. “Your signature is required at the bottom of the third page, if you’re amenable.”
His sharp brown eyes scrutinized the pages. It was somewhat of a relief for the agents to see him without “chocolate”, “khol-lined” or “coal-lined” eyes.
“Aye, I’ll sign it,” he assented. “What will his duties be?” He addressed Mara while looking at her right shoulder, where the monkey now resided.
“Organizing and reporting any other Misspelled Monkeys that we come across, for one thing,” Mara replied at once. “Also, reporting bad Spanish or French, mixed-up homonyms, and anachronistic wording. I’m sure you’ve had your fill of that,” she guessed.
“If one more underaged girl comes up and tells me she wants to ‘have sex’ or ‘snog’ or-” Jack broke off, a hint of disgust passing across his face, and stared hard at Mara. The female agent was obviously unsettled. “But I suppose you’re above all that, eh?”
“I don’t let my emotions rule me, if that’s what you mean,” Mara responded evenly. “I won’t try and get you to love me; I won’t pounce on you; I won’t slap you or threaten you with castration, and I certainly won’t say impertinent things to you and expect to come off the winner in an argument. There are some,” she went on, “who love your character above your physique and your wittiness above your seductive sway.”
He took two steps forward, eyes not faltering. More than one young lass had swooned when he had come that close. There was silence as he measured her motives. He knew her comrade’s purpose well enough-to protect Elizabeth Swann, as he had heard a few of the girls scream as they chased him. What of this young woman? She guarded him closely, jealously perhaps, against the other girls, with little or no payment. Were visits such as these to the fanfiction university payment for setting things right in the story itself?
Quen shifted uneasily on the ship, shuffling towards the railing in case her dinner decided to pay a return visit.
“May I see the Pearl?” Mara blurted out before she thought.
Jack’s eyes widened. “You want me to let you on board my ship?”
“I’ve been aboard before,” said Mara tartly.
“Not with my leave, you haven’t. What do you want to see there?”
“Her beauty,” she said simply.
“And not mine?” he asked shrewdly.
This was too much to bear. Mara made a frustrated noise, snatched the forms from him, and stalked away.
“Guess she doesn’t like me much, after all,” Jack confided to Isaiah.
“She thinks you’re brilliant,” the agent responded coolly. “She just doesn’t like being mistaken for a drooling squee-girl. Again.” He related the story of the harbormaster’s suspicions.
“Ah, that explains the rush of temper.” He gave Isaiah a sideways look. “I didn’t mistake her for what she wasn’t, lad. I was just trying to pry away her...cool exterior, you might say. It was easier done than I thought, perhaps owing to the situation you just mentioned. If she were on the Pearl, what would her reaction be, I wonder?”
“She’d stand to one side and watch you being Jack,” Isaiah responded. “That’s what she really wants: to see you acting like you should. She explained it to me once. She wishes she had your ebullience and your wit. ‘Every sentence that he utters is memorable,’ she said. ‘He is so layered and complex, just like his speech. Canny, you might say. And then they-’ the Sues, you know ‘-have to go and make him behave like any other pirate or melodramatic hero.’”
“I see.” The captain said nothing more, and Isaiah hoped that he had understood.
The male agent rejoined Quen and helped her off the ship, making sure she didn’t stumble or throw up over the side. Luckily, getting onto dry ground went without incident.
“Well, what do you say, Quen?” Isaiah questioned as soon as they had gotten their footing. “Shall we call it a night?”
“Yes, I’ve seen as much of OFUCI as I wish, although perhaps I’d like to meet the Headmistresses as well,” Quen replied. “But I’m done in. It’s not exactly a place one would want to vacation in, is it?”
Isaiah shook his head. “I wouldn’t even want to vacation in the canonical Port Royal,” he said. “It’s not exactly a safe haven, and I’m not even going to get into the late 17th century sanitation. It’s too bad that we didn’t get too far into the book.”
“Come back to my quarters,” Quen offered, “or to the lounge. No one should be in there now.”
Isaiah smiled and offered his arm.
_________________________________________
Mara did not return to Headquarters for some time, though she allowed the Misspelled Monkey through so that he could get adjusted to his new home. While Barbosa was busy tearing apart her office, she lingered by the sea, peering out across the water.
There came the sound of a rowboat softly touching the sand.
“Cap’n says you’re to come aboard, Missy,” said a gravelly voice.
Mara turned immediately. “Mr. Gibbs?” she said excitedly. He looked surprised. “Oh, I’m so please to meet you!” She beamed at him in the dark and shook his hand vigorously.
“Me, Miss?” Gibbs looked confused. “Ye guessed I was takin’ ye to see Jack?”
“No, I-to see the captain?” Mara faltered. “I was pleased to meet you because you’re you. A fine stouthearted sailor, and of the fines tellers of tales I’ve seen.”
“Ah, no, it’s other’s as make ‘em up,” Gibbs brushed off the compliment. “I just add a bit of flare to the old stories. It’s Jack that’s good at tellin' tales.”
“Making them up, perhaps, but spreading them is another matter,” Mara pointed out. “You add so much flavor to the stories that one almost believes them.”
He motioned for her to climb into the boat.
“Now as for myself...” she gazed out to sea wistfully “...I can tear down slander against your plotline and leave its bones to rot. I make misbegotten characters vanish into oblivion. Building tales, though...” she sighed. “That’s not my forte. It’s one of the reasons I try to protect the stories that I love. Isaiah has imagination. I’m the more single-minded one.”
A few minutes later, she was climbing, rather clumsily, on board. Jack Sparrow was standing at the helm of his ship, his stance more confident than cocky. There was no impudence about him here; none was needed. He belonged on this ship.
Mara didn’t try to conceal her grin.
“Fancy seeing you here,” she said, nearly laughing with pure joy, “instead of being on the leash of some strumpet with less sense than a cockle shell.”
He made a wry face.
Mara looked around. “Where’s Anamaria?”
“Below decks, getting some well-deserved rest,” Gibbs answered, shaking his head. “She told me she’d pounded more than fifty fangirls today.”
“You and she should start keeping score,” Mara suggested.
“She’d win.”
“Of course. It might be a bit of consolation from being vanished or bashed in so many fanfics. Though you seem to disappear often enough,” she added sourly.
“Aye,” Gibbs said darkly. “I’ve a foggy memory of a fic where I was replaced by a-” he looked at her suddenly. “Ye were there. I remember now!”
“With James, the Marty Stu?” Mara supplied.
There was a murmur of disgust from the crew.
“Wonder what the PPC did to him,” muttered one pirate.
“Tarred and feathered him, then set him in the middle of town,” Mara replied promptly. “With his claim to piracy, he didn’t last long.”
“We should be agents,” Marty suggested. He glowered. “We could invent some creative punishments, I’ll warrant!”
“For you to be an agent, you’d have to exist outside the story,” Mara pointed out, “and be impervious to the Sue’s lure. However...” a thought came to her. She pulled out her clipboard. “Every pirate who has a horrible demise that he would like to see on a Sue, tell me about it and I’ll write it down! Omit no details. Then, I’ll see what I can do about putting them to work at the end of my missions.”
There was a cheer. It was a bit of a problem to stop all of the pirates from volunteering at once, and a scuffle nearly began when two shouted out the same punishment at the exact same time. Mara took a step backwards-these were angry pirates, after all.
“Captain?” She looked at Jack nervously.
He gave her an amused glance.
“I’ll calm them down...if I get to add my own methods to your list first.”
Mara quickly nodded.
It took about twenty minutes for her to write down all the demises. When she was done, she thanked the pirate crew and its captain and then withdrew to gaze out at the sea.
“Too bad Bootstrap Bill isn’t here to avenge his son,” Mara said. She sighed. “I’d make a lament for him, if I could. But as I told Gibbs-I derive, or else I destroy.”
“What would you derive for a cursed pirate?” laughed a crewman she recognized as Kursar.
“Nothing too extravagant,” said Mara defensively. “A little bit of sorrowful song, but I expect he’d be proud of Will and his legacy, in the end, so...” she shrugged.
The water lapped ceaselessly against the hull.
“I know!” crowed a crew member. “She’d sing a luvverly ditty in Bill’s son’s honor, like the girl who tried to compose love songs in Anamaria’s class! ‘The one who wields the swords, for all the wealthy lords!’” he quoted mockingly, while the crew laughed. ‘“His eyes dark chocolate brown--So hott he’d even look good in a gown!’”
The rest of the sailors joined in:
Long curly hair
There is no way you can not care
Big bright smile
I’ll stare for a while
His name is Will Turner
I won’t put him on the back burner!
The nicest guy you ever met
Even hott when he’s dripping in sweat
The hottest pirate there ever was
With a little peach fuzz!
The crew howled with mirth.
Mara stuffed her fingers in her ears. She had to suffer through enough of that drivel on her missions. She didn’t need to hear it here.
It was some time before she grew bold enough to retreat to the forecastle and peer over the railing. The water was so still. There was only the vague undercurrent that nudged the anchored ship gently, while a quarter moon exposed the ebon beauty of the Pearl.
A song came to Mara in the quiet. It was not her work, but she thought it fit. The moon sank, while Mara whispered down and imagined an echo from the depths.
Though here at journey’s end I lie
In darkness buried deep,
Beyond all towers strong and high,
Beyond all mountains steep,
Above all shadows rides the Sun
And Stars for ever dwell:
I will not say the Day is done,
Nor bid the Stars farewell.
__________________________________________________
Quen sat next to Isaiah, leaning against him as they relaxed on the lounge chair in Headquarters. Isaiah was trying to think of something poetic to say.
“Will Barbosa have his own quarters, or will he share space with you?” Quen wondered idly.
“Oh, I don’t know. Mara was so adamant about getting him; he’ll probably want to stay with her.” He stroked Quen’s hair. “It’s so nice to see someone who actually has green hair, not just a rough dye job that anyone can tell is brown underneath.”
“No Sues with green hair, I hope?”
“I haven’t met any so far,” Isaiah admitted, “though there was one colonial Sue who dyed her hair golden and hot pink and put it into dreadlocks.”
“Yuck!” Quen made a face. “She was probably trying to imitate your hair color, and got it wrong,” she giggled.
Isaiah shuddered. Quen kissed his cheek.
“ALL AGENTS WITH RSVPS FOR THE SMITING, REPORT TO THE TEMPLE IN ONE HOUR!”
The two broke apart at the voice that shrilled over the P.A. system.
Isaiah sat bolt upright. “Argh! The Sue smiting. How could I have forgotten?”
“I’ll let you go,” said Quen. “I’m sure you need to set up. Hopefully, Mara will be back soon. Would you like me to help?”
“If you would like to, that would be wonderful,” answered Isaiah. “There’s not too much to set up, and I can make sure you have front row seats.”
Arm in arm, they set off for the sanctuary.
The End
Continue to Inter-Mission 2
________________________________________________
I would like to thank Miss Merc and Miss Thalia for allowing the agents to visit OFUCI, and for lending Barbosa to the Department of Technical Errors. OFUCI could be found here, before it was unfairly yanked from fanfiction.net. Mrs. Capt. Jack Sparrow, Mrs Sparrow, Mrs. Jack Sparrow, Mrs Capt Jack Sparrows, and The future Mrs. Jack Sparrow are all actual pen names, as are Jack Sparrow’s Only Love and Sparrow’s Tru Love. Any resemblance to their actual personalities is purely coincidental. The ode to William Turner’s hotness is real as well, but it has been removed from fanfiction.net due to the closing down of the poetry category. Thank you to Agent Quen for participating. The second part of this, the Sue Smiting Ceremony, will contain a more detailed author's note.
In the first part of this inter-mission time for Mara and Isaiah, the intrepid PPCers tour the Official Fanfiction University of the Caribbean Islands, where fangirls learn, through pain, to be better authors. Tomorrow, I'll post the second part: the Sue smiting. Questions, comments, criticism welcome!
_____________________________________
The tattered sign on the door to the Department of Personnel shifted askew as Isaiah knocked on the door briskly. He blinked twice at the sign, then carefully inched it back to where it belonged. There was no answer, so after a moment’s hesitation, he surreptitiously opened the door.
“Hi, 'tis Isaiah. Just popping in. I thought, well, it might be difficult to talk in the corridors.”
He paused. Apparently, he had spoken too quietly.
“Quen?” he ventured, louder this time.
Quen looked up from her paperwork. “Hey! I’ve just finished confirming the recruitment of your head of Linguistics Division. He had to be hired out, since he’s now a worker at the Official Fanfiction University of the Caribbean Islands, but I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“You sure?” Isaiah countered with a slight smirk. “The last time you found us personnel, I became subordinate to a giant piece of punctuation and a grandma who’s slightly off her rocker.”
Quen blushed, taking the comment more seriously than it had been intended. “If you have any complaints, I can-“
Isaiah held up his hand, laughing. “Don’t fret. I’ve never had so interesting a time in my life.”
The secretary matched his smile. “HQ is an eventful place, however uncomfortable and perilous it might also be.”
Isaiah nodded, thinking back to the other day and Techno Dann’s squirting of a Sue’d Agent Ginger with a water gun filled with an anti-Sue serum. The PPC lounge in particular was an interesting place to be. It was too bad that he and Quen barely saw each other there, even though he had often stopped by to see if she was relaxing. The last time they had talked together had been several days ago. Isaiah had given her a quick embrace on their way out. He hadn’t told Mara; it was a very private affection. He wasn’t sure if she would laugh at him or not.
When Quen had summoned him here via a memo left under his door, he assumed that it was business related, but he couldn’t help wondering. Now that he knew it was certainly official, he wasn’t sure what to say.
“Um...so...” Isaiah tried to collect his thoughts.
“Yes?” prodded Quen.
“I’ve come to return my profile. Everything looks great.”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
Agent Quen neatly slipped an ID card into a file folder. “I hope you and Mara haven't had troubles with the recent Sue invasion?”
“No, we've been fine.” Isaiah pounced on the subject. “It's funny, but the PotC section doesn't seem to be affected.”
“Good, good,” said Agent Quen in relief. “I found Her name in the files, but other than that, I've been all right. Jaycacia, that is. The Sue outbreak probably stays in Lotrverse.”
“You can come to our division if you need sanctuary,” Isaiah offered.
Agent Quen smiled. “Thanks. By the way, I did get a copy of that book we were talking about. Could I could bring it by the DTE some time?”
Isaiah’s heart leaped. “Sure! Do you like reading indoors or outdoors?”
“Depends if it's sunny or not!” Quen grinned. “...Wait...outdoors? Does the PPC have an outdoors?” she frowned.
An idea dawned on him. “Since I need to go to OFUCI to pick up staffing for Linguistics Division, we might read there,” Isaiah elaborated. “There's a lovely view of the Atlantic from the bow of the newly-resurrected Interceptor.”
“Ahh!” Quen said, understanding. She tapped her chin with a pencil. “If Bleeprin has Gravol-like properties, I'm good to go. Otherwise, I get seasick easily.”
“Don't worry,” Isaiah said quickly. “I think it's moored. Unlike the Black Pearl, it's small enough to fit near the docks. Miss Merc resurrected it, I believe, after some fangirls tried to commandeer the Dauntless...it didn’t go over well. I'll see about renting a fainting couch for us to sit on. The deck's not a terribly comfortable place.”
“That sounds great,” said Quen wistfully. “I haven't seen the sun in quite some time, not since I gave up field work.”
“So...you’ll come?”
“Of course!”
The male agent took a deep breath.
“I'll see you there, then...around what time? Sunset is rather late...”
“We could have dinner aboard the ship,” the secretary suggested.
“Lovely.”
Quen carefully sealed an envelope. “All right, shall I meet you at your office, or should I try to find my way to OFUCI?”
“No, come to the office,” said Isaiah in a detached voice. He felt very odd, as if he had drunk a large quantity of Bleepka. “I'll meet you there. If Mara's around, I'll tell her to bugger off. Politely, of course.”
It must be admitted that the DTE agent, normally unpretentious except during PPCing, swaggered quite a bit on the way to his office. His ecstatic mood last all the way until dinnertime, when he found out that the cafeteria was serving tofu and ketchup with black pears on the side, in honor of the mini-fruit from Pirates of the Caribbean. Isaiah pursed his lips and hoped that the other agents didn’t hate him too much for bringing that cursed technical error to their attention.
______________________________________________
“Even the mini-Balrogs were fed better today-Beef Stu was their soup du jour,” Mara complained as soon as Isaiah walked in the door. She had not been expecting him; consequently, she was busily cleaning her pistol.
Isaiah tossed the sheaf of paperwork Mara’s way. The papers fluttered near her tin of polish. She wiped her hands on the cleaning rag and shuffled the papers back into order. While Isaiah mulled over what to wear to his first real date in PPC Headquarters, his partner gave the papers a cursory glance and leaned on her elbows thoughtfully.
“I suppose I should fetch him,” Mara said at last. “OFUCI is a hazardous place to be if you don’t know your way around. You could get caught in a fangirl stampede, trying to get Barbosa out.”
Isaiah was puzzled. “You’ve visited before?”
“Not exactly.” Mara stood up and slid the papers into her backpack. “I’ve been to OFUM twice, and I assume this fanfiction university has a similar layout. Once you’ve been to a fanfiction university, you get to recognize the warning signs of stampedes fast. Also, I’ve heard the Misspelled Monkeys are vicious, attacking even the canonicals.”
“I can manage,” said Isaiah, on the defensive before he realized that if Mara went to OFUCI separately, he could spend more time alone with Quen. “But if you really think you should go, I’m not stopping you,” he added quickly.
Mara stared hard at Isaiah. Her younger partner was not one to admit that he wasn’t up to a task. Always playing the hero, he usually insisted that he could handle any dire situation as well as the next PPCer. Sometimes, he was right. Sometimes. She decided to let the matter rest.
“No sense delaying,” she said brightly. It probably involves Quen; nearly everything involves her when Isaiah acts, well, out of character, as it were.
Part of Mara’s cheerfulness was forced, but there was an undercurrent of real excitement that she could not quite quench. She might get to see one of the canonicals-the real canon characters, and not the twisted souls to which she had become accustomed.
This did not escape Isaiah’s notice, for he read into her mind almost as easily as she had guessed his. When one has been through a considerable amount of horror and brain damage with another agent, one can see a partner's thoughts more clearly than most.
_________________________________________________
Arm resolutely around Quen’s shoulder, Isaiah strolled into the boundaries of the Official Fanfiction University of the Caribbean Islands. The guard at the door, who happened to be Bo’sun, frowned at his claim to be a PPC agent, and for a moment Isaiah felt Quen tense as he contemplated reaching for his grapnel hook. Isaiah’s ID card made no difference to a pirate who couldn’t read. Then a tremor had run through Bo’sun at the ghost of a memory of being talked down to by Lauren, the insolent fangirl. It was Isaiah who had helped him get rid of the girl and revert back to his old self. The PPCers were allowed in without a word.
“I couldn’t think of a better way to spend an evening,” Quen reassured him. “It’ll be wonderful, you just wait. Besides,” and she nudged him in the ribs, “it was nice to know that your credentials are acceptable here. I wonder if any other canonicals remember you?”
“Probably not,” Isaiah said frankly. It occurred to him that perhaps Elizabeth Swann had. He squashed that thought and hugged Quen closer.
Isaiah had always thought that the Caribbean sea depicted on all the travel brochures was digitally enhanced somehow. No water could be that clear, fading into turquoise and then into the deepest sapphire blue, lapping over soft white sands. Now that he was sure that he was under no illusion, Isaiah sighed contentedly. It was grace embodied, sparkling and multihued and beautiful and dangerous...and he simply loved it, because it was just what it was, with no pretense of any power that it did not possess.
It was some time before he could compel himself to break away and delve into The Well of Lost Plots, which he found thoroughly enjoyable once he got into it. It was, as Quen had said, startlingly PPCish: the heroine, Thursday Next, sought to stop her archenemy from meddling with the plotlines of books. Books were alive in this world, and needed to be protected. He had smiled when he had read the Kirkus review’s assessment: “Like anchovies, Wagner, and Helmut Newton: will greatly appeal to people with unusual tastes-and befuddle everyone else.” That sounded like the PPC all right.
They had progressed to around page thirty, with Quen reading one chapter and Isaiah the next, when the female agent’s voice faltered. She stood up, rather shakily on the rocking ship it must be admitted, and gripped the larboard railing. The sun dropped lower on the horizon, and the ocean at once lost its fathoms. The colors swam so brightly across his vision that Isaiah almost expected a sheet of blue flame to join the brilliant golden light. Now the sun had sunk and the whole world was golden for a moment before fading into grey and mauve. Night fell-abruptly, since they were now closer to the equator. Isaiah was loath to go inside, now that he had enjoyed the fresh sea air as distinct from the stifling and stale Headquarters’.
“I’m getting a bit seasick,” Quen confessed at last, after a few stars had studded the sky. Isaiah nodded wordlessly, realized that Quen couldn’t see him in the dark, and said, “That’s all right; I’m ready for a tour of the below decks OFUCI. You?”
“Quite.” Quen sounded like she was smothering amusement. “Um, Isaiah, that’s a really nice shirt you have on, you know.”
That was an odd thing to say in the midst of near-blackness. Isaiah let go his hold on Quen and faced her. “It’s just my PPC shirt. Can you see well at night, then?”
A few fingers tugged at his right sleeve. Isaiah looked down at where his departmental logo would have been. It was still visible. Radiantly so.
“The he-ck?” Isaiah pulled at his shirt in astonishment and disguised his near-swear with a cough-he was with Quen, after all. “They sent me a glow-in-the-dark shirt?”
“Must be a new feature,” Quen suggested.
“But why would they test it on our emblem?” Isaiah wondered. “Our symbol’s the red pen. Red. This thing glows whitish green. Ah, well. They probably wanted to experiment on mine, with me being a new agent and all.”
“Well, if that’s true, I suppose that’s mild compared to what some organizations have recruits go through. You glow, anyway, in the daytime,” she said, “with that hair of yours. I’m afraid you’re destined to be visible.”
“Oh, am I?”
“It’s not a bad trait on you,” she said, half-seriously.
He laughed giddily, wondering if there were even a dozen Mary Sues that could erase this evening from his memory.
Hand in hand, they walked toward the stairwell, realized that they couldn’t step side by side down the narrow opening, and broke apart reluctantly. Isaiah had reached the fourth step from the bottom when his stomach growled.
“Aww, Quen! We forgot to have dinner!”
_____________________________________________
Mara was met at the entrance to OFUCI by the canonical harbormaster, who was now sitting at a writing desk perched on the dock near the Interceptor. His quill quivered as he hurriedly jotted down the information for an incoming student, who grabbed her paper in a huff and hurried off. Mara was reminded oddly of Isaiah reading his parchment to exasperated Sues.
“Your application, if you please?” he said neutrally, upon hearing Mara’s footstep.
“Oh, I’m not applying to be a student, I just need to-”
The harbormaster looked up with a face that brooked no arguments. He was apparently used to reluctant applicants. “In case you didn’t hear or comprehend me the first time, I require your entry papers.”
Mara sighed, took out her red pen, and filled out a form.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Name: Agent Mara
Gender: Female
Age: 20
Lust Object: Canon
Favorite Ship: Black Pearl
Favorite 'ship: Captain Jack/Black Pearl
Affiliation: PPC agent. Disguise generator will supply whatever uniform is necessary. (Default disguise is a serving girl outfit.)
Recreational Clubs (please select just one): Apple Fanciers Anonymous, Yes We Are Fetishists Thank You Very Much
Have you ever written a Mary Sue: Not in published fanfiction and not since I became a PPCer.
Have you ever written a slash fanfic: No
Canonical Beverage of Choice: Other (please specify) Ale or “rhum” - the mini-beverage that makes one talk like Captain Jack
What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen Sparrow: If shot out of the Canon Cannon, 83 mph. If sprouting wings as the result of an unfortunate Sue-ish metaphor (see Agent Jira and Agent Shmuckleigh’s PPC log, chapter one), 24 mph.
Fear of (select all that apply): Other (please specify)
Emerald green eyes, multiple exclamation points, “Grammer”, and unnaturally heaving bosoms
One word to describe yourself: Nitpicking
Why do you wish to attend this university? I don’t. I’m simply trying to get by Mr. Easily Influenced at the front desk here. I’ve come to retrieve Barbosa, our new head of Linguistics Division.
-------------------------------------------------------
The harbormaster looked it over. He settled his glasses more firmly on his nose in bewilderment.
“PPC?” he said in disbelief. “We haven’t had any PPC visits here. Miss Merc told us about the assassins, but some of us aren’t convinced they exist. If they do, they must be slow about their jobs.”
Mara lost her grip on her temper. She hadn’t the time for this! “For your information, there are eight PPCers for this entire fandom, which, as I believe you know, consists of 6000 stories, conservatively. Of those eight, two are on hiatus, two are still in training, and two are newbies. They’ve PPC’d only one fic so far, and though it was a very good start, Isaiah and I are the only active, experienced PPCers for Pirates of the Caribbean.”
“Open your bag,” he said stiffly in reply.
The female agent pulled out her bag, realizing that she truly should have sent Isaiah. Being male, he would never have had this much hassle entering OFUCI at all, let alone the Staff Section.
Mara reached in her bag and pulled out her Character Analysis Device, a variation of the regular CADs. She had taken it to OFUCI as a useful tool for discerning between the students who applied to be pirates and the actual pirates themselves.
[Harbormaster. Canon. Male. OFUCI staff,] the Character Analysis Device flashed. The gentleman stared at the device.
Mara then took out her stack of correction pens, her clipboard with paper, five bottles of Bleeprin, a small flask of Pink Stuff that she had managed to garner from GreyLadyBast, her dictionary (Isaiah had borrow the thesaurus), a pair of newly-acquired Glopsnerch earmuffs, a bar of chocolate, a small compass, a sachet of doubloons, and the replica of Captain Jack’s gun, which she had stowed in there so as not to arouse suspicion.
The man blinked.
“ExCUSE me,” a sweetly stinging voice barged in from behind Mara. “I think you’d better hurry up. I forgot to fill something in on my application, and Dictatress Thalia said that I had to change it.”
Mara looked behind her. To the impartial eye, there stood a student who had most likely been informed by a friend that you became whatever affiliation you put down on your application. She was dressed in the ballooning skirt of a fine lady, though it was now quite bedraggled from lessons. Her hair was silver with golden streaks in it, and her eyes flashed violet threateningly.
In that instant, Mara forgot that she was at OFUCI, forgot that she was supposed to act composed so that she could get her application through, and ignored the notion that the figure behind her was a student and not-
“MARY SUE!”
Mara picked up the nearest heavy object-her CAD, in this case-and hurled it.
“Begone!”
Thwock!
“AAAH!”
“What in God’s name are you-”
Mara reached for her pistol, but the harbormaster had retrieved it first. He cocked the weapon and pointed it at Mara, who ignored him and flew at the student in a tackle.
“Heeelp!”
The middle-aged man pressed the trigger and found that the weapon wasn’t loaded. “Damn and blast!”
“WHAT is going on?!” cried the outraged voice of Dictatress Thalia. Seeing only a flurry of arms, legs and cumbersome skirts, the Dictatress decided to sic the Misspelled Monkeys on the two combatants, whom she assumed were students having a catfight.
Chattering deviously, the monkeys leaped in the direction of the scuffle. One of them, having jumped from Miss Thalia’s shoulder to the counter upon which sat the PPC possessions, halted and screeched something to its fellow monkeys. They paused just as Commodore Norrington entered, looking slightly put out.
“Jeanine, I expected you in my class five minutes ag-”
The spat stopped abruptly. Mara, having pinned the sparkly-eyed maiden to the dock, looked up at Norrington.
“Jeanine?” she asked, the truth dawning on her. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry,” she said to Norrington, letting the hapless fangirl up. “This is a student?”
“I’m afraid so,” Norrington answered regretfully. He furrowed his brows. “And who might you be?” he queried peremptorily.
The Misspelled Monkey who seemed to be in charge chattered something to Norrington, who looked confused until the monkey pointed to the items on the writing desk. He took a small bottle from the pile and examined it.
“Bleeprin?”
“She’s PPC,” Thalia explained. “Mara, welcome. I hope she didn’t damage your uniform.”
Mara dusted herself off. “Nothing that can’t be mended, rather sloppily, between missions.” She inclined her head briefly in Norrington’s direction. “Agent Mara, Protectors of the Plot Continuum, Department of Technical Errors. I’m honored to meet you, sir.”
He looked faintly astonished. “I was wondering if you were working in our story. I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of you in any fic involving myself.”
“I did tell all of the sailors that I didn’t believe they existed,” the harbormaster put in triumphantly.
“The PPC is real enough,” Norrington informed him crisply. “Just a bit overworked, I surmise. I’ve met agents Jira and Shmuckleigh on two occasions. They helped rid me of two female parasites who claimed to be my sisters.”
Mara nodded. “We’ve a badfic coming up for you, but we can’t get to it now because we’re swamped with other work. Not only are we understaffed in the PotC section, but we’re altering those PPCings with the odd fic from another world-Middle-earth. In fact, I’ll be on my way to the smiting of one such Sue after I get this business sorted out.” She gestured to the desk and her pack, which wore an odd, shriveled look now that it was, for the first time, empty. Mara was not one to come unprepared to her assassinations.
“Ahem!” announced a young woman with a bullhorn, whom Mara recognized as Miss Merc.
“I’ve just come for Barbosa,” the agent explained.
“What happened?” Mercuria asked, raising an eyebrow at Mara, the somewhat rumpled Jeanine, Norrington, and the chattering monkeys.
“I mistook this student for a Sue.” Mara shoved Jeanine none too gently in Norrington’s direction and stepped forward impatiently. “I was told that I could hire my head of Linguistics Division for the Department of Technical Errors.”
“Why would Barbossa agree to work for you?” Norrington asked. “Much less lead a...linguistics department, did you say?”
“Not the pirate captain,” Mara corrected. “The Misspelled Monkey.” At that, the lead monkey capered about, making for Mara in a somewhat roundabout way. He halted in front of her and stared up at her, scrutinizing the agent. All at once, he leapt onto her shoulder, then onto the desk, and began to collect all of the items strewn about on top. He deposited them rapidly into her backpack.
“He’s been a bit antsy the last two weeks,” Merc explained. “He loves biting the fangirls, but being one of the oldest minis, he’s been on duty guarding Captain Jack, and the stress is a bit much.”
“I understand,” said Mara sincerely, both to Miss Merc and to Barbosa. Addressing the monkey, she said, “I’ve had to guard Captain Jack for a while, too. Maybe you can give me some pointers, hey?” She fastened the flap of her backpack, saluted the headmistresses and the canonicals, and was about to walk off when she realized that her backpack felt oddly light. Dropping it swiftly and opening the top flap, she discovered that the ample bag of doubloons she had carried to the university was missing.
Mara folded her arms across her chest and frowned at the corrupt official manning the desk, who sheepishly surrendered the bag.
“Oh, that reminds me,” said Mercuria, eyeing the filched property. “The job form will require Captain Jack’s signature as well, since Barbosa is his bodyguard.”
Mara blinked. “Will he allow me to deprive him of protection against the fangirl hordes?”
“Not without compensation, of course...” Miss Merc took Mara’s papers from her and signed them. “...but he’ll be receiving aid from ‘Luitennet Norrington’ and ‘Govenner Swann’ any day now, which I think he’ll approve of. Barbosa, being a mini of Jack’s worst enemy, wasn’t too fond of the captain, proficient though he was at foiling the fangirls’ plots.”
Mara made sure that the coins were situated snugly inside her backpack and stepped jauntily out of sight, Barbosa now playing with her curly hair.
_________________________________________________
Isaiah had paid for a replica of Barbossa’s feast to be laid out for them in the captain’s cabin. No officers were there, since it was the time between studies and bed when the students were liable to be most rambunctious and plan their most dastardly lust object trapping of the day. The rhythmic rocking of the ship was gentler here, and Quen’s stomach had settled down considerably. Nevertheless, she couldn’t restrain a giggle or two at their absentmindedness.
“How could we forget to eat such fare as this?” she asked, marveling at the variety and quality of the food. “I’ve never seen these dishes before.”
“Colonial cooking’s not exactly the specialty of the PPC kitchen staff,” Isaiah pointed out. “In fact, cooking is not the specialty of the PPC kitchen staff.” He cut the pig carefully and pared a piece off for Quen. She had already started in on her biscuit. She insisted on pouring the wine for him, cautioning him not to drink too much. This being the colonial era, there were no legal restrictions on drinking alcohol, but Isaiah hadn’t had any alcoholic beverage to speak of in his system before, so he wanted to take it easy.
They had gotten halfway through their second course when there came a harsh knock at the door. The pirates had come to retrieve their cutlery and the remainder of the food. Isaiah and Quen hastily exited and wandered above decks, where they were shown the way to another section of the university: a colonial mansion.
As soon as they had gotten through the doorway, a head poked out of a side chamber. A girl emerged, carrying a small candle. Thrusting the light in Isaiah’s eyes, she stared at him, open-mouthed. Isaiah caught a glimpse of two round brown eyes before she whisked the light away and put a hand on his shoulder. Isaiah shrugged her off just in time to miss the blinding light a second time.
“Do you mind?” he yelled.
“You-you ARE a boy!” she said breathlessly.
“And you’re a student,” Isaiah answered impatiently, “and I’m not so pleased to meet you, and I really must be off.”
“Are you a canon character?” she persisted as if she hadn’t heard him. “I think I’d have noticed if a young, attractive man like you had made his way onto set. Don’t tell me they hid you behind all those scruffy pirates!”
Isaiah scowled. “Get away from me, wench. I’m taking a tour of the university with my...” he glanced Quen’s way.
“With his girlfriend. I’m Quen,” the secretary said, moving firmly between Isaiah and the young woman.
“Uh-huh.” The girl looked Isaiah up and down. “You’re not much older than I am, are you? I’m Dawnspell,” she said cutely, using the name that she had put down on her OFUCI application.
The exchange had wakened one of Dawnspell’s roommates, who stole carefully out of the chamber, probably in fear of attracting the attention of the monkeys.
“Hi,” whispered the second young lady, “are you new students? Gee, what’d you put down on your application?” she said bluntly to Quen. “Alien?”
“Generic Star Trek Alien,” Quen corrected.
“There are no aliens in Pirates of the Caribbean,” said another sleepy voice from within the room. “Even we know that.”
“She knows,” Isaiah said gruffly. “In fact, she knows more about canon than you’ve learned all your time here, I’d wager. She’s not a student. She’s a visitor.”
“Uh huh,” answered the first girl skeptically, while the second thrust an arm out of her doorway, obviously getting a robe on. “Look, I tried that one, too. It doesn’t work. If you’re trying to sneak out...”
“We’re not trying to sneak anywhere,” said Isaiah impatiently.
“There’s not much to see, anyway,” the second girl informed them. “Just icky pirate guards and that nasty Elizabitch slinking about, trying to get back at us for liking Will.”
“You mean, for having your characters steal away Will’s heart by deceit and contrivance, usually resulting in Elizabeth being insulted or eradicated from the story?” Isaiah deadpanned. “Yeah, can’t imagine why she’d find that offensive.”
“Hey!” said Dawnspell hotly. “She doesn’t deserve him!”
“Miss Swann is both smarter and braver than all of you fangirls who, instead of having your OCs build character by weathering the harsh adventuring life, twist history, geography, and logic and bestow upon your heroines supernatural skills,” Isaiah retorted. “No matter how impossible your girls’ adventures might be, it becomes equally impossible for your glossy-haired heroines to fail. What kind of a story is that? Everything that most fans enjoyed about the movie-the characterization, the colorful cameos, and the pirates that actually act like pirates and are not mere caricatures-springs out of your Mary Sue’s way to accommodate her. The only things that remain are her lust object’s good looks, and as for those...the next time I see Captain Jack with copper eyes or mahogany skin, I’m going to skewer your Sue and shove her through your dorm window!”
The dropping of the girls’ jaws was almost audible.
“How-how dare you!” managed one.
A vein was throbbing at Isaiah’s temple. Quen grabbed hold of his shoulders to steady him, but he was past reasoning with. He had, here before him, the creatures responsible for sending him through the portal, again and again, into misery, torment and bad grammar. He was going to give them what-for.
“Your creations lack her taste and manners and common sense. If you met up with Elizabeth while at Will’s shop, she would be polite and agreeable-she was even courteous to Barbossa in the beginning, though you make her out to be a villain. Conversely, your original character struts in on the scene with nary a care for Miss Swann’s feelings, buttering up to Will and sneering at Elizabeth’s snobbishness, which she has never canonically shown despite being an aristocrat. And not only do you expect Will to fall for your Sue, but you believe that your character holds the MORAL HIGH GROUND, usurper though she is, because...why?! Because she’s pretty? Because she’s you?”
There were several murmurs at that, ranging from unhappy to slightly guilty to downright enraged. One of the girls remarked, “He likes Elizabeth, doesn’t he?”
At that, Dawnspell gave a gasp of delight. “I know what you are!”
Isaiah leaned back against the wall skeptically. “Do you indeed.”
“You’re a...a FANBOY!” she screeched at the top of her lungs.
“WHAT?!”
Immediately, several doors slammed open. Isaiah clutched Quen’s hand.
“I’m not-”
“Did you just shout that a fanboy was here?” asked a sleepy, curly-haired brunette.
“Yes! Help me wake everyone up. Iris! BelgianWaffle22!” she called to her friends. A raggedy-looking lady pirate and a Tortugan whore staggered out of their rooms and peered at Isaiah.
“I’m not a fanboy! Didn’t I just tell you that-”
“Mrs. Capt. Jack Sparrow, you too!”
“What is it?” asked four of the awakened students at once.
“No!” said the girl petulantly. “Mrs. Capt. Jack Sparrow! Not Mrs Capt Jack Sparrows, Mrs. Jack Sparrow, Mrs Sparrow, or the future Mrs. Jack Sparrow!”
The disappointed young women withdrew into their chambers.
“Let go of my arm!” Isaiah said furiously, trying to twist away from them.
“It’s okay. You’re the first fanboy that’s ever attended this university.” Mrs. Captain Jack Sparrow giggled. “You’ll probably get special favors from all of the canon cast.”
“Ooh! Ooh!” one of the girls squealed. “Can you get Jack to sign my corset?”
“It’s ‘all of the canonicals,’ or ‘the whole canon cast,’” Quen corrected automatically, stepping in front of Isaiah, who sent her both a grateful and admiring glance.
Good grammar sense, optimism and good looks, he reflected happily.
All of a sudden, the girls shrank back a bit. A few resentful murmurs passed among them.
“Well, I love Will, and I wish he were with me,” said a particularly stubborn fangirl with the name “Carlyle” tattooed on her upper arm. She said this to something over Isaiah’s shoulder. Unfortunately, he was hemmed in by girls on all sides. “Miss Swann,” she said the name like a curse, “acts like that’s a crime!”
“Your crime,” Isaiah said, an edge to his voice, “is in not recognizing the fact that Will might mean the world to you, but you are a ha’penny to him, if anything. You say that you love him. Can’t you love him enough to leave him in peace? Don’t you know that the best way to make him happy is to keep him with his one true love, whom you could never replace? I adore Miss Swann’s character, but I know that she belongs with Will, not with me or with anyone else. Will spent the entire movie trying to save her. Who am I to spit in the face of that in order to satisfy my own whims? Leave the canonical couple of PotC ALONE, for heavens’ sake! They’ve earned it!”
Enthusiastic applause came from behind him. Isaiah struggled to turn around. Someone shoved one of the girls that was trapping him aside. Judging from the girls’ nervous glances, it had to be Mara. Still, their glances showed an extraordinary amount of hatr-
“Miss Swann!” Isaiah gasped in horror. The feisty governor’s daughter was holding a torch aloft, white nightdress contrasting with the brown ensemble of Will Turner, who stood protectively beside her.
“Agent Isaiah.” Elizabeth greeted him warmly. She smiled. “I’m glad to see that you are, er, giving these girls a bit of a midnight lesson.”
“I’m terribly sorry to wake you, Miss Swann,” stammered Isaiah. “You were obviously abed. I grew angry when they-when-”
“When they insulted my honor?” she asked, with a pert grin. “Don’t worry; I was not yet abed when Will informed me that there was a commotion in the halls.”
I shall not stampede comma drool over comma or otherwise attack Lust Objects... I shall not stampede comma drool over comma or otherwise attack Lust Objects... I shall not stampede comma drool over comma or otherwise attack Lust Objects...
Aloud, he said, “It’s an outrage that they should...” Oh, Eru, I can’t think, I’m going to fall over and they’ll all laugh at me...
“Defile your reputation when you have already given up so much for Will,” Quen murmured to him.
Isaiah repeated her words without pausing to ask himself why. Elizabeth’s smile widened, and she curtsied, while Will stepped out from the shadows, clearly reluctant to expose himself to the fangirls’ sighs.
“We are deeply in your debt, Agents Isaiah and...” Will’s eyes moved to the green-skinned female.
“Oh, I’m Quen. Just Quen, the secretary,” she answered, feeling very awkward.
“She’s my real lady friend,” Isaiah said firmly. He broke eye contact with Elizabeth and looked at Will, who was trying not to grin. Isaiah opened his mouth, but closed it again and swallowed.
“Is there something you wish to say?” Will wondered, puzzled.
“Are you going to kill me?” Isaiah replied almost immediately.
“You? You, who have saved Elizabeth’s life and my sanity?” He glanced at Elizabeth. “I could think of no other defense on your behalf than what just came from you own lips, before you knew we were there,” he said honestly. “I wish you luck, and may your mind be guarded against all of their onslaughts.” His head inclined in the students’ direction.
“You saved Will’s sanity?” Dawnspell yelled in surprise.
“To be sure,” said Elizabeth, casting a glare her way. “By throwing out one of your comrades’ creations. I’d be careful around him, if I were you.” She and Will exited.
When the fangirls found out that Isaiah was an assassin working for an undercover agency, that he usually dressed in black and wielded sharp weapons as part of his job, they crowded around him.
“Oh, no,” Quen moaned.
“And look at that hair!” One girl pointed to Isaiah’s untidy mop. “He’s not a redhead, and he’s not blond.”
“Multicolored hair!” screamed another in excitement.
“It’s strawberry blond, not multicolored!” Isaiah yelled.
“He’s so cute!”
“And he has freckles!”
“Agent Isaiah, will you be staying long?”
“Can you PPC my fic? Please?”
Before he knew what was happening, they had him pinned against the wall. His PPC instinct kicked in. He grabbed Quen’s arm roughly and ducked down, head-butting the nearest teeny bopper and running headlong down the corridors. “Quickly! They won’t stop until they’ve glomped me!” The flying tackle hug, or glomp, administered by a fangirl was one of most PPC agents’ worst nightmares.
Quen ventured a look back. Fear registered in her eyes. “It looks like we have a small stampede on our hands, Agent!”
They slipped down the slick hallway, past where Jack Sparrow’s Only Love and Sparrow’s Tru Love were bickering, followed relentlessly by the squealing mass of girls in their nighties.
“Got any ideas?” Isaiah gasped.
“Who would have thought you would be the newest fangirl L.O.”? Quen gasped as she bustled down the hallway.
The fangirls had surprisingly long endurance. It appeared that they had had a lot of practice stampeding. They were gaining on the two agents, since they knew the corridors and the PPC pair did not.
They rounded a corner, and...
SCREECH! SCREECH! A ball of fur cannoned into the mass. At the same time, a large bag was swung into the mass of females and a dark form kicked the nearest girl’s feet out from under her.
Agent Mara of the PPC saw her partner and Quen running, chased by a mob of Suethors, and went to work stemming the tide. She punched, kicked, and lashed out with her pistol muzzle. They kept coming.
“Mara!” Isaiah shouted in panic. “Mara, get out of here! There are too many!”
He, Quen, and Mara sprinted towards the exit and made for the ships.
“You’ve had a bad day, too, huh?” Mara gasped as they ran along. She managed to relate the scene at the entrance to OFUCI before they reached the end of the dock.
“Have me instead of Elizabeth! I’m prettier!” the closest girl cried in desperation.
To their relief, more screeches sounded throughout the docks. The PPCers reached the nearest ship, the Interceptor, where Gillette was discussing lust object harassment penalties with Mr. Cotton. The girls poured onto the Interceptor, nearly unbalancing it. Finally, Captain Jack appeared from below decks, looking slightly exasperated.
“Can’t an honest pirate get some peace in-”
He surveyed the scene. Immediately, his cutlass was drawn and he leapt into the thick of the action. The girls, though not afraid of a grapnel hook or an empty pistol, had enough sense of self-preservation to keep away from cold steel.
“Out, and off this ship, or I’ll have your liver n’ lights.”
Now that the scare was over, Mara looked at Quen amusedly. “So that’s why Isaiah wanted to go alone to the Interceptor.”
“You don’t have to shout it out for all to hear,” muttered Isaiah, as Quen blushed a bright blue-green.
“I wasn’t,” Mara said, widening her eyes innocently. Captain Jack, meanwhile, had unleashed the Misspelled Monkeys that had been sequestered with him. Soon the deck was clear of fangirls and Suethors.
“You sure know how to handle ‘em, Captain,” Mara voiced her admiration.
Jack Sparrow picked up a small photo manipulation of Will kissing a raven-haired student, evidently dropped by one of the fangirls in the heat of the chase, and flung it overboard. “I’ve some prowess with women-even harpies, or so it seems,” he grinned. He quirked an eyebrow at Mara. “I seem to remember you and your friend from somewh-ah, o’course, Helen of Troy and her rainbow-eyed adversary.” He chuckled.
“Among other things,” Isaiah said cheerfully. Mara looked as if she wanted to say much more, even stay and carry on a conversation with the captain. Too soon she remembered her errand and slipped the forms out of her backpack, somewhat worse for the wear.
“Here. This is for you,” Mara said in a formal tone of voice. “Your signature is required at the bottom of the third page, if you’re amenable.”
His sharp brown eyes scrutinized the pages. It was somewhat of a relief for the agents to see him without “chocolate”, “khol-lined” or “coal-lined” eyes.
“Aye, I’ll sign it,” he assented. “What will his duties be?” He addressed Mara while looking at her right shoulder, where the monkey now resided.
“Organizing and reporting any other Misspelled Monkeys that we come across, for one thing,” Mara replied at once. “Also, reporting bad Spanish or French, mixed-up homonyms, and anachronistic wording. I’m sure you’ve had your fill of that,” she guessed.
“If one more underaged girl comes up and tells me she wants to ‘have sex’ or ‘snog’ or-” Jack broke off, a hint of disgust passing across his face, and stared hard at Mara. The female agent was obviously unsettled. “But I suppose you’re above all that, eh?”
“I don’t let my emotions rule me, if that’s what you mean,” Mara responded evenly. “I won’t try and get you to love me; I won’t pounce on you; I won’t slap you or threaten you with castration, and I certainly won’t say impertinent things to you and expect to come off the winner in an argument. There are some,” she went on, “who love your character above your physique and your wittiness above your seductive sway.”
He took two steps forward, eyes not faltering. More than one young lass had swooned when he had come that close. There was silence as he measured her motives. He knew her comrade’s purpose well enough-to protect Elizabeth Swann, as he had heard a few of the girls scream as they chased him. What of this young woman? She guarded him closely, jealously perhaps, against the other girls, with little or no payment. Were visits such as these to the fanfiction university payment for setting things right in the story itself?
Quen shifted uneasily on the ship, shuffling towards the railing in case her dinner decided to pay a return visit.
“May I see the Pearl?” Mara blurted out before she thought.
Jack’s eyes widened. “You want me to let you on board my ship?”
“I’ve been aboard before,” said Mara tartly.
“Not with my leave, you haven’t. What do you want to see there?”
“Her beauty,” she said simply.
“And not mine?” he asked shrewdly.
This was too much to bear. Mara made a frustrated noise, snatched the forms from him, and stalked away.
“Guess she doesn’t like me much, after all,” Jack confided to Isaiah.
“She thinks you’re brilliant,” the agent responded coolly. “She just doesn’t like being mistaken for a drooling squee-girl. Again.” He related the story of the harbormaster’s suspicions.
“Ah, that explains the rush of temper.” He gave Isaiah a sideways look. “I didn’t mistake her for what she wasn’t, lad. I was just trying to pry away her...cool exterior, you might say. It was easier done than I thought, perhaps owing to the situation you just mentioned. If she were on the Pearl, what would her reaction be, I wonder?”
“She’d stand to one side and watch you being Jack,” Isaiah responded. “That’s what she really wants: to see you acting like you should. She explained it to me once. She wishes she had your ebullience and your wit. ‘Every sentence that he utters is memorable,’ she said. ‘He is so layered and complex, just like his speech. Canny, you might say. And then they-’ the Sues, you know ‘-have to go and make him behave like any other pirate or melodramatic hero.’”
“I see.” The captain said nothing more, and Isaiah hoped that he had understood.
The male agent rejoined Quen and helped her off the ship, making sure she didn’t stumble or throw up over the side. Luckily, getting onto dry ground went without incident.
“Well, what do you say, Quen?” Isaiah questioned as soon as they had gotten their footing. “Shall we call it a night?”
“Yes, I’ve seen as much of OFUCI as I wish, although perhaps I’d like to meet the Headmistresses as well,” Quen replied. “But I’m done in. It’s not exactly a place one would want to vacation in, is it?”
Isaiah shook his head. “I wouldn’t even want to vacation in the canonical Port Royal,” he said. “It’s not exactly a safe haven, and I’m not even going to get into the late 17th century sanitation. It’s too bad that we didn’t get too far into the book.”
“Come back to my quarters,” Quen offered, “or to the lounge. No one should be in there now.”
Isaiah smiled and offered his arm.
_________________________________________
Mara did not return to Headquarters for some time, though she allowed the Misspelled Monkey through so that he could get adjusted to his new home. While Barbosa was busy tearing apart her office, she lingered by the sea, peering out across the water.
There came the sound of a rowboat softly touching the sand.
“Cap’n says you’re to come aboard, Missy,” said a gravelly voice.
Mara turned immediately. “Mr. Gibbs?” she said excitedly. He looked surprised. “Oh, I’m so please to meet you!” She beamed at him in the dark and shook his hand vigorously.
“Me, Miss?” Gibbs looked confused. “Ye guessed I was takin’ ye to see Jack?”
“No, I-to see the captain?” Mara faltered. “I was pleased to meet you because you’re you. A fine stouthearted sailor, and of the fines tellers of tales I’ve seen.”
“Ah, no, it’s other’s as make ‘em up,” Gibbs brushed off the compliment. “I just add a bit of flare to the old stories. It’s Jack that’s good at tellin' tales.”
“Making them up, perhaps, but spreading them is another matter,” Mara pointed out. “You add so much flavor to the stories that one almost believes them.”
He motioned for her to climb into the boat.
“Now as for myself...” she gazed out to sea wistfully “...I can tear down slander against your plotline and leave its bones to rot. I make misbegotten characters vanish into oblivion. Building tales, though...” she sighed. “That’s not my forte. It’s one of the reasons I try to protect the stories that I love. Isaiah has imagination. I’m the more single-minded one.”
A few minutes later, she was climbing, rather clumsily, on board. Jack Sparrow was standing at the helm of his ship, his stance more confident than cocky. There was no impudence about him here; none was needed. He belonged on this ship.
Mara didn’t try to conceal her grin.
“Fancy seeing you here,” she said, nearly laughing with pure joy, “instead of being on the leash of some strumpet with less sense than a cockle shell.”
He made a wry face.
Mara looked around. “Where’s Anamaria?”
“Below decks, getting some well-deserved rest,” Gibbs answered, shaking his head. “She told me she’d pounded more than fifty fangirls today.”
“You and she should start keeping score,” Mara suggested.
“She’d win.”
“Of course. It might be a bit of consolation from being vanished or bashed in so many fanfics. Though you seem to disappear often enough,” she added sourly.
“Aye,” Gibbs said darkly. “I’ve a foggy memory of a fic where I was replaced by a-” he looked at her suddenly. “Ye were there. I remember now!”
“With James, the Marty Stu?” Mara supplied.
There was a murmur of disgust from the crew.
“Wonder what the PPC did to him,” muttered one pirate.
“Tarred and feathered him, then set him in the middle of town,” Mara replied promptly. “With his claim to piracy, he didn’t last long.”
“We should be agents,” Marty suggested. He glowered. “We could invent some creative punishments, I’ll warrant!”
“For you to be an agent, you’d have to exist outside the story,” Mara pointed out, “and be impervious to the Sue’s lure. However...” a thought came to her. She pulled out her clipboard. “Every pirate who has a horrible demise that he would like to see on a Sue, tell me about it and I’ll write it down! Omit no details. Then, I’ll see what I can do about putting them to work at the end of my missions.”
There was a cheer. It was a bit of a problem to stop all of the pirates from volunteering at once, and a scuffle nearly began when two shouted out the same punishment at the exact same time. Mara took a step backwards-these were angry pirates, after all.
“Captain?” She looked at Jack nervously.
He gave her an amused glance.
“I’ll calm them down...if I get to add my own methods to your list first.”
Mara quickly nodded.
It took about twenty minutes for her to write down all the demises. When she was done, she thanked the pirate crew and its captain and then withdrew to gaze out at the sea.
“Too bad Bootstrap Bill isn’t here to avenge his son,” Mara said. She sighed. “I’d make a lament for him, if I could. But as I told Gibbs-I derive, or else I destroy.”
“What would you derive for a cursed pirate?” laughed a crewman she recognized as Kursar.
“Nothing too extravagant,” said Mara defensively. “A little bit of sorrowful song, but I expect he’d be proud of Will and his legacy, in the end, so...” she shrugged.
The water lapped ceaselessly against the hull.
“I know!” crowed a crew member. “She’d sing a luvverly ditty in Bill’s son’s honor, like the girl who tried to compose love songs in Anamaria’s class! ‘The one who wields the swords, for all the wealthy lords!’” he quoted mockingly, while the crew laughed. ‘“His eyes dark chocolate brown--So hott he’d even look good in a gown!’”
The rest of the sailors joined in:
Long curly hair
There is no way you can not care
Big bright smile
I’ll stare for a while
His name is Will Turner
I won’t put him on the back burner!
The nicest guy you ever met
Even hott when he’s dripping in sweat
The hottest pirate there ever was
With a little peach fuzz!
The crew howled with mirth.
Mara stuffed her fingers in her ears. She had to suffer through enough of that drivel on her missions. She didn’t need to hear it here.
It was some time before she grew bold enough to retreat to the forecastle and peer over the railing. The water was so still. There was only the vague undercurrent that nudged the anchored ship gently, while a quarter moon exposed the ebon beauty of the Pearl.
A song came to Mara in the quiet. It was not her work, but she thought it fit. The moon sank, while Mara whispered down and imagined an echo from the depths.
Though here at journey’s end I lie
In darkness buried deep,
Beyond all towers strong and high,
Beyond all mountains steep,
Above all shadows rides the Sun
And Stars for ever dwell:
I will not say the Day is done,
Nor bid the Stars farewell.
__________________________________________________
Quen sat next to Isaiah, leaning against him as they relaxed on the lounge chair in Headquarters. Isaiah was trying to think of something poetic to say.
“Will Barbosa have his own quarters, or will he share space with you?” Quen wondered idly.
“Oh, I don’t know. Mara was so adamant about getting him; he’ll probably want to stay with her.” He stroked Quen’s hair. “It’s so nice to see someone who actually has green hair, not just a rough dye job that anyone can tell is brown underneath.”
“No Sues with green hair, I hope?”
“I haven’t met any so far,” Isaiah admitted, “though there was one colonial Sue who dyed her hair golden and hot pink and put it into dreadlocks.”
“Yuck!” Quen made a face. “She was probably trying to imitate your hair color, and got it wrong,” she giggled.
Isaiah shuddered. Quen kissed his cheek.
“ALL AGENTS WITH RSVPS FOR THE SMITING, REPORT TO THE TEMPLE IN ONE HOUR!”
The two broke apart at the voice that shrilled over the P.A. system.
Isaiah sat bolt upright. “Argh! The Sue smiting. How could I have forgotten?”
“I’ll let you go,” said Quen. “I’m sure you need to set up. Hopefully, Mara will be back soon. Would you like me to help?”
“If you would like to, that would be wonderful,” answered Isaiah. “There’s not too much to set up, and I can make sure you have front row seats.”
Arm in arm, they set off for the sanctuary.
The End
Continue to Inter-Mission 2
________________________________________________
I would like to thank Miss Merc and Miss Thalia for allowing the agents to visit OFUCI, and for lending Barbosa to the Department of Technical Errors. OFUCI could be found here, before it was unfairly yanked from fanfiction.net. Mrs. Capt. Jack Sparrow, Mrs Sparrow, Mrs. Jack Sparrow, Mrs Capt Jack Sparrows, and The future Mrs. Jack Sparrow are all actual pen names, as are Jack Sparrow’s Only Love and Sparrow’s Tru Love. Any resemblance to their actual personalities is purely coincidental. The ode to William Turner’s hotness is real as well, but it has been removed from fanfiction.net due to the closing down of the poetry category. Thank you to Agent Quen for participating. The second part of this, the Sue Smiting Ceremony, will contain a more detailed author's note.