Mission!
“Sorry, no sale.”
Mara stamped her foot in exasperation. This was her third stop along her normal barter route, and she couldn’t afford to fail. Her need for strong coffee was growing by the minute. Like all agents, however, the DTE assassin was usually strapped for cash; this was especially the case since she’d been forced to pay through the nose to restore her colonial pistol after its latest sojourn into the Caribbean blue.
She’d tried an under-the-table deal with Leto Haven. She’d tried to trade with Isaiah using a new CAD as a bargaining chip. Her last resort was Al’s Waiter, but her distaste for dishwashing warred very strongly with her caffeine dependency. In the end, though, it was Tour Prend Pion or bust.
“Come on,” the agent wheedled, trying to catch the eye of the new assistant. Wheedling wasn’t really her style, but she really needed the money. “What self-respecting pawnshop won’t accept a perfectly good Sue scalp belt?”
“The last one you brought in had floating hair. One of my customers accidentally let it go, and it did…up, up, and away. Sorry, Miss. Can’t help you.”
Mara made a sound rather like an unhappy vacuum cleaner. “Fine. See if I ever go to New Caledonia again.”
Harrumphing her way out of the store, Mara activated a portal. She was in luck: the doorway opened straight into Agent Isaiah’s quarters.
She realized why her luck had been good when she heard an -EEEEEEEEEP! from her partner’s console.
Dashing through into HQ, Mara decided to surprise the living daylights out of Isaiah. At least she could take his mind off of the beeping. That was charitable of her. Wasn’t it?
“Holy Eru mother of sweet Quetzalcoatl-!”
“Ahh, there’s nothing like deity-mangling blasphemy to brighten one’s day,” said the female agent in satisfaction. “What fresh horrors await us today?”
The color rushed back to Isaiah’s face.
“Oh,” he said. “Hi. Don’t think there’s a Sue.”
Mara blinked.
“Wow, my hearing really isn’t what it used to be,” she said. “Mind repeating that?”
Isaiah carefully set his chair upright again and faced her.
“I. Don’t. Think. There’s. A. Sue.”
“…”
“No, really.”
“…”
“I’m serious! Quen has taken to warning me ahead of time when a Sue rears her fair yet terrible head. See…” he gestured to the Words, “no wilver star on this one.”
Mara frowned. “Bad slash?”
“Nah, that’d be a vomiting smiley face.”
Mara looked to the beginning author’s note and back again."'This story is the tale of an unlikely friendship between James Norrington and Jack Sparrow,’” she read. ‘"It is set after the second movie, though disregards all history of Davy Jones' heart…’ Isaiah, are you sure we have the right assignment here? Her English looks nearly perfect.”
Isaiah wrinkled his nose. “You know what happens when you say stuff like that. The better a fic looks…”
“…the worse it smells,” Mara finished. “But I really can’t see how this could possibly-”
“All right, that’s it. I’ve had enough of you tempting fate. Let’s go!”
_____________________________________________
The Author’s Note Alert button flashed blue.
The Pearl has been overtaken by the British Royal Navy and all of the crew were captured, with the exception of the infamous Jack Sparrow. Nonetheless, it is our two favorite characters engaged in a wonderful friendship! Read on and do enjoy their story!
“Sounds great! …where’re the technical errors?”
“Dunno, Isaiah. Like I said…heh. Nice ruffles.”
Pause.
“Excuse me?”
“Look down at your disguise.”
Isaiah took his eyes off the Words and spared a glance at his shirt. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no.” The initial scene took place during what Jack Sparrow would affectionately call a ‘high-toned and fancy to-do,’ and the male agent was accordingly clad in a velvet waistcoat with obscenely big buttons, puffy breeches, and what looked like more ruffles than shirt.
“Absolutely spiffy,” he deadpanned. “I feel like Ron Weasley at the Yule Ball.” He glanced at her. “Lucky.”
Mara smirked. It was always nice to have a maid’s outfit on hand.
Then…
Bloop.
The agents looked at each other.
Bloop. Bloopity-bloop. Bloop.
Isaiah shrank down inside his enormous shirt.
“I don’t know that sound, and already I hate it. Wait. Oh, guh, Mara, it’s on your shoe!”
Mara heaved her serving tray onto the table and bent down.
On her plain cloth shoe rested a perfect, glimmering drop of urple.
“Ah!” Mara shielded her eyes with her hands, only to have another drop land on her pinky. Belatedly, she flicked it off-onto Isaiah, whose glare she could feel through her fingers. “I don’t get it. No Sue so far. No bad slash. What’s happening?”
Suddenly, there was a tug at her hands. Mara obligingly put her hands down, only to see Isaiah blanching and gawking at the ceiling. Mara craned her neck.
Above them, leaking slowly but surely through the roof, was a swelling stain of urple.
It centered right above Norrington, then engulfed him.
His thoughts were always so majestically concealed between his richly lined face and his eyes, his wonderfully large, giving eyes, typically only revealed what their viewer desired to read. James was always content in being the reason for another's contentment themselves.
A high drone from Mara’s CAD made her cringe. Norrington now had a richly-lined face, and…what in the world was going on with his wig?
He was so dashingly handsome, handsome even when under the influence of a white, powdered wig.
Isaiah was the first to find his voice. “Under the influence…of a wig.”
Slowly, Mara cleared her throat. “That’s right. Norrington’s wig is controlling his mind.”
They looked at each other.
The next instant, both were practically on their knees with laughter. The spell created by the hideous combination of flowery prose and thesaurus abuse was kept at bay by mirth. For the moment, at least.
'Admiral James Norrington.' His name had only seemed right for the position; it was more befitting than any title he had previously claimed.
“So, he didn’t think about changing it to Rumpelstiltzkin? That’s a relief."
He admired himself in the mirror, tucking a stray hair from his wig
beneath another strand. He adjusted his tri-colored hat atop his head and grinned with satisfaction.
While Norrington’s OOC narcissism shot up to 38% on the readout, the agents were busy figuring out what had possessed him to wear that hat. Issues of etiquette aside, a Tri-cornered hat would have been accurate. A tri-colored hat, however…
“What colors are you seeing?”
“Beige, salmon, and turquoise.”
“I’m seeing neon pink, electric blue, and green.” Mara rubbed her eyes. “Wait, green? Just green? My imagination’s not what it used to be.”
Isaiah patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, old-timer.” He dodged her swat at his head. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of opportunity to showcase your years of experience.”
True to the bad description, everyone was “clashing” their glasses, causing various crystal goblets to shatter in an ear-numbing fashion. The guests then began bolting down platters, despite the fact that they should have been bolting down food.
“Someone’s going to have indigestion in the morning!”
“It might be us,” Mara muttered as they found themselves suddenly at the doorway. A stunning carriage awaited Norrington, pulled by two horses that were-
FOOOOOOOOOOM!
“AHHHHHH!”
The agents dove for cover, knocking over a statue and nearly drawing Norrington’s attention. Fortunately, the lack of Sue saved them from an impromptu reveal. Heat singed their skin and nauseating blello lights danced behind their eyelids. When Mara and Isaiah regained their bearings, they found that a force from above had just firebombed two perfectly good horses…for a perfectly stupid reason.
Two deeply blackened Clydesdales awaited him…
“Noooo,” mourned Mara. “Struck down by an Imagery Attack. The poor horses!”
“I think I’m going to be sick.” Isaiah promptly fulfilled his prediction in the nearest flower vase. A few seconds later, he came up for air. “You know, Mara, I’m beginning to see why this is our story.”
Mara looked skyward. Urple clouds were moving in. “Yeah. And why there’s no Sue. The very presence of the Author-Wraith is against us.”
“Hmmm.” Isaiah pondered. “If there’s no particular character of focus, how do we exorcise this fic?”
Mara surveyed the scene, averting her gaze when Governor Swann’s eyes started glittering. “Well, my junior partner, my experience tells me there is an object in this fic that is channeling the author’s spirit. All we have to do is find it.”
“While ignoring the gigantic mound of urple?”
“Don’t forget the thesaurus abuse.”
He continued into the ballroom. It smelt of fresh salmon and turkey breast, of cool ice and of brilliant tasting wines. Golden lamp fixtures or chandeliers were the highlights of the room, and the finest of silverware and the richest of draperies accented them.
Against all odds, the agents were treated to a scene from Beauty and the Beast. The fact that the silverware and draperies “accented” the lights caused a huge animated chandelier to materialize, complete with red drapery and a host of sporks dancing atop it to the tune of “Be Our Guest.”
“Mara?”
“Yes, Isaiah?”
“Can you tell me if I’ve seen stranger things? Right now, I can’t remember.”
“It’s okay, I don’t even know what my last name is anymore.”
On and on marched the exaggerated description. Before the agents knew it, they were facing Lady Anna, a woman wearing fine jewels with contemptuous lines on her face.
The misplaced modifiers gleefully wrought havoc on the sentence; now it was the jewels who had contemptuous lines and were etched across the woman’s face. The agents cocked their heads, perplexed, as scornful diamonds and sapphires began popping out of the woman’s forehead.
Mara, still a serving wench, sidled close enough to pluck an emerald from behind Lady Anna’s ear. Sure enough, as soon as the gem left her face, it began spouting off to the agents.
“You call that hair brushed? I’ve seen more dignified coifs on Milady’s stallions!”
“There isn’t enough lemon juice in the world for those freckles, young man!”
“Stand up straight, both of you! Humph. What a pair of little savages.”
The faces surrounding the table grew interested as they fixed their ears to enjoy the exchange of words before them.
There was a mad scramble for the charge lists, which they had currently forgotten in the wake of the terrible writing.
“Causing guests to fix their ears.”
“Causing a man’s words to stumble beneath his lips.”
“Causing the nobles to give Norrington ‘beams of acceptance and gratitude.’ Look out!”
Isaiah caught Mara by the backpack and dragged her out of the way of the giant beams. Mara returned the favor when the male agent succumbed to his shock at Norrington blushing and fumbling for words at Governor Swann’s smile.
"I…I," Whatever he had in mind had either most certainly refused to come out, or was never quite fully developed and decided to not uncover embarrassment.
“What’d I miss, what’d I miss?” he said dazedly, after Mara had boxed his ears to wake him up.
She pointed at the ceiling. “It’s not what you missed. It’s what might not miss us!”
Isaiah’s eyes went wide.
“Flllammmming Deeeeneethoooooooor…”
The rush of urple missed them by inches.
James Norrington was always considered to be the man upon the dance floor which all other men envied and which every woman dreamed having his arms about her waist. He was quite the leader, one who would take his partner into his sturdy frame and accentuate her steps, however wondrous or terrible, nearly gliding across the floorboards.
Bloop! Bloop! Bloop!
The agents tried to wrap their brains around one Lady Roessler gripping Norrington’s hand in a ‘gnarly fashion’, but gave up and contented themselves with hiding from the ooze. They concealed themselves behind the draperies-not a moment too soon, as Lady Roessler’s feet inexplicably began to ‘clash’ on top of Norrington’s.
Isaiah looked away from the battling feet just in time to see a blob torpedo towards him. “Fngh!” he exclaimed as it latched onto his nose. Mara whipped out her thesaurus and tried to brush it off. To her chagrin, the urple blob moved toward the thesaurus like a magnet and--shloop!--was absorbed by it in a flash.
Mara gave her partner a worried glance. “This is not good news.”
He began treading now, back to his chair, when he caught the glimpse of Thomas Bennington beside his wife and daughter across the room. He lowered his hat while they caught eyes and swiftly began in their direction.
“What do you think we should do with 'em?” Mara observed the net full of eyes with an impassive expression. Text this disjointed was a novelty, but she had seen just about every eye-related mishap possible.
“Maybe throw them at the Words,” Isaiah suggested. “Who writes this stuff? ‘Conversation was lax between them’? ‘He clutched James' hand rightfully’? ‘James humbly flashed his white, brilliant teeth’?!”
With practiced ease, both agents shielded their vision from the searing bleached teeth of Norrington.
“What’s he doing here, again?"
“Celebrating his promotion to Admiral.”
“Ah. I was under the impression that it was a ceremony.”
“Mmm.”
“An outside ceremony.”
“That would be my first choice,” said Mara, watching as a certain Clara Bennington danced with the Admiral.
“A ceremony where they OH THAT IS NOT RIGHT!”
She often kept her bosom tied neatly beneath her dress.
Mara turned to find Isaiah gaping like a fish-and not in the happy hormonal haze that would usually accompany his ogling.
Somewhat punch-drunk from repeated hits to all five senses, she found that she couldn't resist. “Do your boobs hang low, do they wobble to and fro? Can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow? Can you-”
“Stop, STOP! The image alone…the image. They...they’re tied! How…how did they get that long? And…flexible? Gaaah! Bleeprin! Bleeprin!”
Mara could see Isaiah’s complexion hovering between a seasick green and a mortified red. The emerald she was holding, of course, was giving an acerbic running commentary on her partner’s facial expressions. Thoroughly fed up, Mara punished it by stowing the jewel in her back pocket.
Ignoring its muffled cries about the reek of unwashed barbarians, she made to steady her friend against the table. To her disgust, she found that her own control was rattled. This prose was like nothing she had ever seen. It was like watching a builder add pretentious embellishments to a Lothlorien talan…before he had a working knowledge of gravity.
The weary duo managed to make it to the end of the chapter, where the ANA device lit up.
Jack is coming! I promise! bellowed the all-powerful authorial voice.
“You. YOU!” Mara pointed an accusing finger at the sky. “It’s all your fault. You and your compulsive need to describe the obvious in a stilted, thesaurine way!”
“I hate to rain on your parade, Mara, but…I don’t think that’s a real word.”
“Well, giver the Suethor my congrats; she just made it one.”
Just give him a few more chapters, however. Right now I'm concentrating on developing the start of the sub-plot, developing Norrington's character, and giving the reader glimpses into his various relationships with other characters. Don't worry, it gets really interesting when he comes in!
“Trust me, this story is already far too interesting. I'd just as soon leave the good captain out of this monstrosity.”
“I know,” Isaiah chimed in. “What I wouldn’t give for your average boring badfic right now.”
There was a thoughtful silence.
“…what would you give for it, Isaiah?”
“Mara! Just because you’re short on money right now…”
P.S. How can you not like Norrington? He's so amazing, and so dashingly handsome, and so wonderful and spectacular, and... oh boy I'm going crazy over him again! You can probably even tell how much I love him through my writing,
“Yes, those levitating cheekbones of his were quite the clue,” Isaiah commented. Off Mara’s look, “What? I peeked ahead. I wanted to prepare myself for the awfulness to come.”
Mara, too, stole a glance at the Words. “Looks like the entrance of Miss Catherine Bouvier. She’s the closest thing there is here to a Sue, but we can’t really charge her.”
Isaiah gave her a sour look. “I really, really think we can.”
His partner shook her head. “Sorry. First of all, the story doesn’t revolve around her. Second, the prose is the way it is on principle-it’s not the direct Suefluence we’re used to. Third, everyone is overly described in this fic, not just Miss Bouvier. The most we can do is kill her as a bit character. Personally, I'd just as soon have her drown in the Author-Wraith's urple.”
After digesting this, the implications hit Isaiah like a ton of bricks. “By the Valar. This fic is so bad, the Sue actually fits right in!”
"Do excuse my informality. Admiral James Norrington," he offered.
"Miss Catherine Bouvier, Sir." He reached for her hand and delicately placed his pink lips upon it.
“…Pink?” said Mara, disbelieving.
“Hey, that’s not the worst description of his lips I’ve ever seen.”
“Do I want to know?”
“’Wine red’, Mara. And you wouldn’t have liked sitting through that fic much more than this one.”
She was rich in looks, her golden, curly tendrils bouncing almost lively off her shoulders, her brilliant green dress accentuating her marvelous curls. Her face seemed almost younger, her eyes in particularly.
They glowed, even in the darkness, with a delight of the simplest things.
“Glow-in-the-dark eyes? Well, at least we’ll never lose track of where she is.”
Norrington and Catherine Bouvier got cozy on a balcony with a view of the ocean. Norrington ‘pushed up his weight’ and then suggested they become 'a marvel themselves'.
He was considerably taller than her; her head fell just at his shoulders.
“Must…resist…temptation…to…collect…Sue…head….”
He took her waist, she his shoulder as they positioned themselves.
“What is this, musical body parts?!”
“Sh,” said Mara. “We don’t want to distract them, now do we? Then they might blather on some more.”
“All right, you have a point. So, do we wait for the next syntactic speed bump, or…?”
He heard Mara gasp in pain just before something cut him on the jaw.
They stared at each other in utter befuddlement.
“Ow,” was all Isaiah could say.
Mara took out a knife and began cutting away the ruffles on Isaiah shirt, using them as temporary bandages. It turned out that as Norrington and Catherine danced, their bodies “cut through the air” and began “flying through space”. The agents had stood too close; when the dancers cut the air, they had cut the PPCers, too.
“Catherine's eyes glow in the dark, she has a detachable head, and she can friggin’ FLY?” groaned Isaiah. “Are you sure we can’t charge this chick?” The next instant, they dodged a wave of urple as Norrington’s cheekbones began “raising to inexplicable heights”.
Mara gave him an emphatic no.
“She’s not the focal point,” the female agent insisted, raising an eyebrow as Norrington removed his wig. “I’m telling you, there’s something else in this fic that the Author-Wraith is-”
He lay quietly in the bed, positioning himself atop the covers as opposed to beneath them.
Luckily, the Admiral’s rest was not disturbed by loud hoots of laughter.
______________________________
The agents activated a portal to the Admiral's awakening-which was, as it turned out, much too early for both of them. No sooner had they found their footing than they were treated to what seemed at first like a hallucination.
…telegrams of Port Royal's news flying through the air…
There was no doubt about it now. Wires were strung through the air, filling the skies above the narrow streets and strangling the odd passing bird that flew too close.
Mara raised both eyebrows. “Welll…this is a cultural contamination I’d never thought I’d see.”
“Telegrams!” spluttered Isaiah. “Just because it’s historical does not mean it’s accurate!”
“You said it, my friend. I'm pretty sure Author-Wraith introduced this technology a good 150 years ahead of schedule.” Mara gestured to the streets of Port Royal, now strung with wires. “How do we get rid of them?”
Isaiah whispered in her ear.
“Heh. As always, I like your thinki--"
He jolted from the bed, ignoring all traces of formality as he dashed passed his newly pressed uniform and newly powdered white wig. The air was chilled, wretched, and wet with the mildest hint of dreariness hanging over the town. He bounded to Weatherby's office. There sat he, freshly groomed with the air of calmness spread before him.
Sometimes, the little things count more than the big. An air of calmness spreading from him would apply only to Norrington.
The air of calmness spreading in front of him applied to everyone in the room.
Before they realized what had happened, both agents breathed in the devastating Air of Calmness.
“All of a sudden…technical errors…don’t matter.”
“Yes, who really cares about spelling and grammer anyway?”
“It’s just a harmless little badfic. So what if it warps the stories that we love?” Mara yawned. “Let’s go to sleep, Isaiah.”
“You go. I’m going to the balcony to watch the ocean.”
“Mmm. It’s nice to be calm for a change. Wait, didn’t you just misspell-OW!”
From nowhere, a huge knitting needle came and poked Isaiah in the arm.
Mara gave a distant laugh. “Looks like you upset Grammer…”
Vaguely, Isaiah was aware that the CAD in his hand was hot…very hot…and registering an OOC reading of 96%. Some niggling voice in the back of his head told him that, contrary to what the fic had just said, Norrington would NOT do anything for power. Nor would a “stately mixture” of any kind caress Norrington’s face.
James Norrington entered the town market with quite the air of elegance….even in the dress of a casual pair of breeches and dainty white chemise.
The sight of Norrington in a dainty white chemise, however, brought the agents out of their torpor with a vengeance. That, and the giant splash of urple that soaked them both to the bone.
The bedraggled pair locked eyes.
“That does it,” said Isaiah. “I’ve HAD IT with this stupid, stupid, and did I mention stupid, fic. Think, Mara. Where would the Author-Wraith be hiding? What object would it use?”
Highly motivated to finish the mission, both agents perused the Words again, paying special attention to anything that might be seen as unusual and recurring throughout the fic.
In a flash of inspiration, they turned to each other.
“The wig!”
Without thinking twice, they leapt forward and wrestled the wig off the head of an imperturbably calm Norrington. Now swimming against a high tide of urple, the agents hurriedly got out their DVD boxed sets.
“The power of Ted and Terry compels thee!” howled Mara as she thwacked the possessed wig. “Charge the Author-Wraith, Isaiah!”
“Message for you, Uncanon!” replied Isaiah. He seized the mind-warping wig and hurled it into the air. It was caught and tangled in the uncanonical telegraph wires strung throughout Port Royal.
It turns out that an urple flood and telegraph wires do not mix well. In a shower of Sue-spectrum sparks, the anachronistic cultural contaminations and the 'influence' of the vile wig were no more.
If anyone heard a shrieking, Sueish cry above the pink-purple maelstrom, it was drowned out by the sound of lots of little beeps:
--- / ..- -. .... --- .-.. -.-- / ... .--. .. .-. .. - / --- ..-. / -... .- -.. ..-. .. -.-. / .- ..- - .... --- .-. --..-- / -.-- --- ..- / .- .-. . / -.-. .... .- .-. --. . -.. / .-- .. - .... / -... . .. -. --. / .- / -. ..- .. ... .- -. -.-. . / --- ..-. / .- / -. .- .-. .-. .- - --- .-. / .- -. -.. / .--. ..- -- -- . .-.. .. -. --. / -.-- --- ..- .-. / - .... . ... .- ..- .-. ..- ... / - --- / - .... . / .--. --- .. -. - / - .... .- - / -.-- --- ..- .-. / ... - --- .-. -.-- / .. ... / .- .-.. -- --- ... - / ..- -. .-. . -.-. --- --. -. .. --.. .- -... .-.. . / .- ... / . -. --. .-.. .. ... .... --..-- / -- .. ... .--. .-.. .- -.-. .. -. --. / -- --- -.. .. ..-. .. . .-. ... --..-- / -- .- -.- .. -. --. / -. --- .-. .-. .. -. --. - --- -. / .-- .. .-.. -.. .-.. -.-- / --- ..- - / --- ..-. / -.-. .... .- .-. .- -.-. - . .-. --..-- / -.- .. .-.. .-.. .. -. --. / - .-- --- / .... --- .-. ... . ... / .-- .. - .... / ... .... . . .-. / -... .- -.. / -.. . ... -.-. .-. .. .--. - .. --- -. --..-- / .- -. -.. / .. -. -.-. .. - .. -. --. / .-- .- ...- . ... / --- ..-. / ..- .-. .--. .-.. . / - .... . / .-.. .. -.- . ... / --- ..-. / .-- .... .. -.-. .... / .-- . / .... .- ...- . / -. . ...- . .-. / ... . . -. .-.-.- / ..-. --- .-. / - .... . ... . / -.-. .-. .. -- . ... --..-- / -.-- --- ..- / .- .-. . / ... . -. - . -. -.-. . -.. / - --- / -... . / . ...- .. -.-. - . -.. / ..-. .-. --- -- / - .... . / -.-. .- -. --- -. / ..-. --- .-. . ...- . .-. -- --- .-. . .-.-.- / -- .- -.-- / --. --- -.. / .... .- ...- . / -- . .-. -.-. -.-- / --- -. / -.-- --- ..- .-. / ... --- ..- .-.. .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .. ..-. / -.-- --- ..- / .... .- ...- . / --- -. . .-.-.-
__________________________________________
The assistant at Tour Prend Pion shook his head pityingly when Mara poured a bagful of jewels onto his counter. “Sorry again. Sues have devalued the price of gems in these parts to a mere 44 cents per carat.”
“Not these,” said Mara. “Trust me, advertise the right way and they’ll be very valuable. My partner and I got them from our last mission.”
Bored, he picked up a stray diamond. “I grant you the agents’ love of ‘shinies’, but-”
“Your mother is a Jabberwocky!” shrilled the diamond.
The man recoiled. “What in the name of-”
Mara grinned. “Oh, they have plenty of names of their own. They insult anyone who holds them, good sir. And remember…tomorrow is April Fool’s Day.”
The End
________________________________________
Morse Code translator is here.
Badfic Title: Paid in Full
Culprit: SpArRoWsWeNcH
Happy March Madness, all!