*Indicates thoughts* (Usually indicates actions, possibly sound effects)

Part One

"You know, that's pretty cool. How do you do that?" Jarod asked.

Scribe, lying on her side in bed, in what she had a moment ago fondly perceived to be her own safe, dull little room, examined the arm draped across her middle. The hand was currently playing idly with the sheets around her tummy, but she was watching it like a hawk for signs of unacceptable activity. "Do what?"

"Just sort of blink from one section of your universe to the other. Most of us have to use some nominal form of transportation."

Trying not to move, Scribe let her gaze travel up the forearm and bicep, to the shoulder, then down to the chest. Mhm, just as she'd thought. No clothing above the waist. "Do you mean to tell me I'm not in the universe, I'm still in my universe?"

"Well, of couse, silly. I couldn't very well be here otherwise, could I?"

She sighed. "Well, hell, that didn't work." Her eyes darted around the room. It looked so darn perfect, exactly like home... Oh. Wait a minute... No, the poster on the door was different. She was pretty sure there weren't many full frontal nude posters of Antonio Banderas in existence in the real world.

Her eyes touched on a pile of clothes by the side of the bed. "Are those your clothes?"

"They are." He rested his chin on her shoulder, and she felt the faint scratch of whiskers.

*Don't you dare shiver, woman. The guy didn't even ask permission to be here.* "And those things on top would be..."

"My boxers." He moved his chin. *Scritch scritch. That feels kinda... Do not go there. Is he doing that on purpose?*

"I'm going to hand you those. Be a good lad and put them on."

"Why?"

*Why?* "Because I have a hard time talking to naked people."

"You must not frequent cyber chat rooms."

"Just do it, huh? For me?" She lifted the boxers *ooh, silk* and passed them back.

"Yes, oh My Creator."

"Stop that! Like I told Sandburg, I didn't create you, I say so at the start of every fic. Do you want the legal sharks down on me?"

He released her, and she felt movement as he donned the clothes. "Don't worry. They don't have many corporate lawyers in fanfic. I think there may be one or two entertainment lawyers in the ACTION section. Other than that we have crusading DA's, passionate public advocates, and sleazy, organized crime tools." She passed back the jeans. "These, too?" He sounded disappointed.

"Yes."

"But why? I'll just have to take them off again when we..." Scribe thumped out of bed. Literally. Jarod peered over the side of the bed at her, a thoughtful look on his face. "You know, you're right. I feel the need to seek out knowlege and new experiences, and I've never done it on the floor before."

She scrambled to her feet. "I never finished my teaching courses, so find someone else." At least he was pulling on his jeans. *Damn. Those things were so tight, you could count his pulse.*

"But it would be perfect! You remember how often I'm written as very inexperienced sexually, due to my sterile, unnatural upbringing. And you're a virgin. We could learn together. It'd be nice to have my first time with a woman for once."

"What, that 'renewable virginity' thing?"

He nodded, coming around the bed. "Xander Harris is the champ in that field, but I have my share of it. The isolated upbringing background seems to encourage it."

She was backing away, but all he did was retrieve his shirt and put it on. "I haven't written anything about you, have I?"

"Nothing you've posted. You've just noodled a few paragraphs once or twice, never finished them, always deleted."

"Oh. Uh, I hope you're not upset about that."

He waved it off. "Nah. You have a very active dream life. I've gotten a workout there."

Scribe looked surprised. "I do? You have?"

He shrugged. "Sure. No one remembers all their dreams. You've been pretty inventive. I liked the one where I was a Chippendale dancer, and you visited me backstage. I never knew there was enough room to DO that in a dressingroom toilet."

She frowned, brow puckered in concentration, obviously searching her memory. Her eyes widened, and pink swept up her cheeks. He nodded happily. "That one with you, me and Lyle was pretty interesting, too. You know, you should send it to the Hershey's Chocolate people, you might be able to get a product endorsement contract."

The pink deepened to scarlet. "Or a civil suit. Look, let's not talk about that right now." She eyed the closed door to what should be the hallway dubiously. "Am I gonna find Miss Parker out there? I can't recall seeing her slashed, but the idea of her horny and bi scares me to death."

"No, she's not around. Apparently she hasn't caught your attention enough to generate even speculation in your imagination. And let me tell you, she's pissed about that."

Scribe winced. "I'll think about that tomorrow. Scarlett O'Hara, Gone With the Wind. Well, there's no way of telling what's out there except to take a look." She squared her shoulders, opened the door, and stepped out.

Okay, so far, so good. This looked like a perfectly normal hallway, her hallway. She checked the bathroom. Good, good. No series star characters taking a shower. She moved on to the living room.

...and stoppped dead, sighing. "Hello, Fraiser."

The Mountie, resplended in red tunic, put down a cup, standing when a lady entered the room (of course). "Good evening, Miss Scribe."

Diefenbacher came over to say hello, rolling on his back to have his belly scratched. She did so, wishing that her other fan fic characters were so easily satisfied. "He hasn't piddled on the carpets, has he? My Mom would have seven kinds of fits if there was wolf pee on the carpet."

Fraiser looked scandalized, and Diefenbacher looked hurt. "Certainly not! Besides, you know very well that your mother never actually appears in your fiction. She is only mentioned in passing."

"Yeah, right. He didn't eat the wiener dog or cat, did he?"

"That, at least, is a more logical concern, as they might be considered small prey. No, he did not. However, you should have placed your Pop Tarts on a higher shelf. He consumed an entire box before I realized he was in the pantry."

"My stash!" She looked at the wolf sternly. "Not the chocolate fudge?"

He whined placatingly. "No, I believe it was apple-cinnamon."

"Oh. Well, I guess I can spare them." Dief's tail thumped happily. "Just leave the Oreos alone." His ears pricked, and even Scribe could almost hear the gears clicking in his head.

"Dief! You will leave the lady's cookies alone." Fraiser scolded. He straightened his tunic, then began to unbutton it. "I, on the other hand, have definite plans for her goodies..."

Scribe sighed as she started to dash for the door. "Same song, second verse..."

Part Two

There really wasn't much chance that Scribe would have made it out the door before Fraiser caught her. After all, the man could make time through deep snow in snowshoes. The question was rendered moot when she tripped over Diefenbaker and landed with a thump that knocked the breath out of her.

"Whuff!" Diefenbacher whined at the sound, licking her face. "Whuff, not woof." she explained breathlessly.

Fraiser was on top of her before she could draw a proper breath. "He is wondering why you are making such a fuss over mating, since you are so obviously in heat. I must admit that thought had not occured to me, but I am more than willing to be of assistance."

"I bet." Scribe panted. Panting was not such a good idea with a couple of hundred pounds of Canadian on top of her, as Frasier seemed to think that this was an invitation to open mouth kissing. The breathing became even more difficult with his tongue in her mouth.

After several seconds of very moist activity, she managed to tear her mouth loose. "What the hell happened to being a gentleman?!"

"I am fast coming to the conclusion that, in some situations, gentility is vastly over rated." He started sucking a hickey on her neck, hands moving down to start unzipping his fly.

"Benton Fraiser! Stop that! Shit! Look, we can't do it on the floor. I'll get rug burns on my behind, and my Mom will kill me if there's come stains on her carpet. You can't put me in that position."

Benton was panting. "Miss Scribe, there are numerous positions I would like to put you in, but you are right. I do not want you to be unduly uncomfortable during our sexual congress, and I have no desire to get you in trouble with your mother. But how can I be sure that you will not try to flee the scene if I allow you to get up?"

Scribe thought for a minute, then batted her eyelashes at him sweetly. He looked enchanted, as well as horny. *Hah. Knew that would work.* "Tell you what, Benton. If you let me up, I promise to do something truly...completely...wicked."

"Really?"

She knodded. "I'd cross my heart, but my chest is currently being crushed." Fraiser got up, and helped her to her feet, then looked at her expectantly. She smiled demurely. "Take off your tunic." He did. She looked. "And your shirt." He complied. She looked again. Rolled her eyes. "And your undershirt. Damn, Benton, my house is located in Texas. How do you stand all those layers?"

"If you will pardon me for disagreeing, Miss Scribe, your home is in Texas in the universe, whereas in your universe..."

"Yeah, yeah, got the picture. Reality distortion, geographic anomalies."

"Now." He took off his undershirt. "You promised to be wicked."

"So I did." She raised her voice. "Jarod! Come in here a minute, would you?" The Pretender entered the room. He stared at the naked to the waist Fraiser, then looked at Scribe inquireingly. "Jarod, you remember you were telling me about wanting to have new experiences?" He nodded. She pointed at Fraiser. "Bet you never made it with a RCMP."

Jarod's face lit up. Fraiser's mouth dropped open. "Oh, dear."

This time she made it out the front door, calling back, "I promised wicked. I didn't say what kind of wicked." She bolted outside, slamming the door behind, and froze as a spray of water hit her in the face. Her eyes squeezed shut automatically. Rain? She licked her lips. Hmmm. Salty.

"Oh, cripes." This did not look good. She wiped her face, then slitted her eyes open.

She hadn't really expected her own front porch and front yard. No, that would have made life too easy. She'd really thought she was ready for anything. She wasn't prepared, however, to find herself standing on the deck of a mammoth ocean liner.

"Oooo, this is SO bad." Just to confirm her suspicions, she walked a few yards down and examined the life preserver hung on the wall. T I T A N I C. "Huh. As if it didn't just fucking figure."

She glanced back at the door she'd exited, cocking her head. That sounded like Jarod offering to show Fraiser a new way to eat PEZ. She decided not to go back there if she could help it.

Scribe sidled along the deck, trying to look casual as she wandered among people clad in turn of the century travel finery while she, herself, was barefoot and wearing brief, baggy sleep shorts, a loose T-shirt, and not much else.

*Okay, lemme see...who do I have to look out for here? On this class level... Cal Whatsizface. Hm. I had some serious hots for Billy Zane in that role, but upperclass chauvanistic elitist abusive rich prick arrogance is easier to take on screen than in person. I guess I could go down to steerage. It shouldn't be too hard to fight off Jack Dawson. I'm pretty sure I could kick Leo's ass if I had to...*

"Well now."

She hadn't been paying attention. Not adviseable in fan fiction. Things could happen very quickly, especially in the sort of PWP that seemed so common in her universe. She'd wandered out onto a small, isolated section of deck, and now she turned to find the aforementioned upperclass chauvanistic elitist abusive arrogant rich prick smirking at her, and blocking the only narrow exit back to the ship proper.

He smiled smoothly as he came toward her, eyes hooded. "I must say, Scribe, you make an absolutely delicious half naked peasant wench." He held out a hand. "Rose doesn't understand me."

"Riiiiiight." She backed up.Okay, now I have to come up with a story line for the rest of the proverb. I think it'll make a great title: 'Be carefull...' *Oooo... voice... VOICE...VOICE!!! Damn, I think if those obscene phone calls I used to get at work had a voice like that, I would have made some pervert very happy...NO! Stop drooling woman. This guy slaps, remember? Butt, maybe, under the right circumstances. Face? Never.* "Nooooooo, I DON'T think sooo."

The smile broadened. "Oh, good! You're reluctant." He kept coming closer, reaching for his crotch. Scribe noted that apparently during this time period they still favored button flies over zippers.

She stared up at the sky, making frantic slicing motions across her throat. "YO, CAMERON! CUT! CUT, YOU OVERPAID SUNUVABITCH!"

Nothing. Hm. Also apparantly, men's underwear did feature the comfort slit. She backed up some more, mind racing. Cal purred, "There's a nice covered lifeboat just over here, if you care for a little more privacy. Of course, the old addage is that you can do it in the streets, as long as you don't frighten the horses, and since there aren't any horses here..."

She made a decision. Climbing up on the rail, she said, "You know, I've never written death fic." She took a deep breath, hollered, "Rose was a pussy!" and did a swan dive over the side.

As wind rushed past her, and the water dived up to meet her, she heard Cal calling, "You don't really buy that 'fate worse than death' crap?!"

Part Three

Scribe surfaced in the middle of a tank of vicious, mutated sea bass with bad attitudes. They learned that their attitudes weren't nearly bad enough to mess with a pissed off, drenched fanfic author, and quickly left her alone.

The chamber was empty, so she assumed that Austin Powers was in the process of defeating Dr. Evil. However, as horny as Austin was naturally, even without the help of a fan fiction universe boost, she thought it might be prudent to vacate. Wishing she felt safe enough to go hunt up Scott Evil *Hubbahubba!* she dived again.

This time she surfaced in a very pretty little lagoon. She waded up till she was thigh deep in the aqua water, and surveyed the area for possible lust crazed television or movie characters.

She noted palm trees, a small, wrecked, cabin cruiser, and a rather handsome curly headed man sitting crosslegged on the pristine white sand. He appeared to be attempting to build a short wave radio out of coconuts, palm fronds, and sea shells. He was engrossed in his task, and didn't notice her. Shaking her head, she started to wade back out, then hesitated.

She eyed him speculatively. Right off hand, she could think of only one character (human and past puberty) who hadn't seemed to exude any type of sexual interest in anyone, male or female. Heck, even the Flying Nun sort of flirted with that nightclub owner. If what she thought was true, she should be able to do something that she'd wanted to ever since she was a small girl, and still escape.

Nodding to herself, she waded up to the beach. He didn't look up at the sloshing sounds, too preoccupied to hear the little splashes. She padded up the sandy beach and stood before him. "Ahem."

He glanced up, looked back down, did a double take, and sprang to his feet. "Good lord! Where did you come from?" He stared at her, wide eyed. Here he thought there were only the seven of them on this benighted island, and he looks up to find a strangely attractive woman, skimpy wet clothes plastered to her body, grinning down at him.

Scribe smiled sweetly. "It's a looooong story." Then she lunged forward, grabbed his butt, and laid a serious, wet liplock on his startled mouth. After about five seconds she let go, twiddled her fingers goodbye, and waded back into the lagoon. When the water reached chest level, she held her nose, thrust her other arm straight up over her head, and dropped. And didn't come up.

Two figures, one rotund in a blue shirt and the other skinny in a red one, came out of the trees. The skinny one piped, "Well, Professor, having any luck with the radio?" It took several hours for them to get a coherent answer out of him.

Scribe exitted the water the next time much more hastily. *Shit! Where the hell did that merman come from? And I thought they were supposed to be human just down to the waist...* She quickly stumbled up the shore, out of reach, and watched a large, shining tail smack the water angrily.

The small beach was deserted, and she plopped down on the sand voluntarily before she could collapse. At least she'd have a breather before she had to figure out what to do next. She was a little nervous as to what fandom section she'd stumbled into now. It didn't have the same tropical feel the island had.

In any case, she was very tired, and the sun was having a rather hypnotic effect. There wasn't anyone around. Maybe she could sneak a teeny nap to clear her head. She stretched out on the sand, closing her eyes. The backs of her eyelids were red with the glare instead of black, but she was pretty sure she dozed off.

Then a shadow passed over her face, and a deep, masculine voice said, "Well, well. Look what Poseidon tossed up for me. I must remember to thank him."

Oh, cripes. She sneaked an eye open. There was a sandal clad foot right about at eyelevel, near her face. She looked up hesitantly. Lots of leather, lots of skin over lots of muscles. A hard, handsome face with a neat, dark beard, dark eyes, and lots of dark hair. Not very hopeful, she said, "Please tell me you're gay."

He grinned. That was a bit more terrifying than a scowl. "Not by a long shot, darlin'."

"I was afraid of that."

"You know, you're going to burn that sweet white skin, lying out here in the sun like this. You should be covered up." He started to bend down. "I can help you with that."

She rolled quickly, scrambled to her feet, and ran. listening for the thud of pursuing footsteps...And ran right up against Ares, who had appeared before her. She smacked him on the shoulder, shouting, "Don't do that! It isn't fair to transport, or whatever you call it."

He shrugged. "What makes you think I feel the need to be fair? I'm a god." She tried to run back the way she'd come, but he grabbed her from behind. It was one of the more secure grabs she'd experienced so far. He rubbed against her rump and whispered in her ear, "This will do just fine. You are aware, of course, that you're in Greece?" It took a second for the implied meaning to sink in. Then she yowled like a scalded cat, and started flailing. "Ah, good. You got it."

She once again found herself in an intense struggle to keep her panties at a decent level. She was greatly relieved, therefore, when a Lucy Lawless clone strode over the top of a dune, took one look, and usheathed her sword, stalking toward them.

Good! Xena made it a habit to rescue endangered damsels, didn't she? And the fan fics usually had her involved with Gabrielle, so she should...Except when she was involved with Ares. Shit, what if she was jealous? That could be very messy.

Xena called, "Alright, Ares. Unhand the virgin."

"Aw, Xena," He continued to hump against Scribe's backside. "Don't be a spoilsport."

"I mean it, Ares."

"You tell him, Xena," she called. "I'm getting bruised in very embarrassing places."

As she came closer, Xena squinted at her. Her beautiful blue eyes widened in surprised recognition, "Scribe?"

*Damn, I ought to run into some Cheers fiction any second now, since everybody knows my name.* "Yuh. I could use some rescuing, here."

Her sword lowered. "I'm afraid that puts a slightly different spin on things."

"WHAT?! No, no. You're the heroine, remember? You rescue people. Adversarial relationship with ol' Leathers here, right?"

Ares grinned at Xena wickedly over Scribe's shoulder. "Sharesies?"

Xena tapped the sand with her sword point a couple of times, staring at the squirming fan fiction author speculatively. Then she started to sheath her blade.

Scribe went still with disgusted dismay. "Well, fuck!" She bit her lip, eyes going wide. "Oops!"

Xena smiled, and began walking over.

Part Four

Scribe wondered frantically if there were a patron godess of virgins, and that, if there were, she would be willing to help out a Southern Baptist. "This is too much!" she shouted. "Simple molestation is bad enough. Same sex molestation is worse. But multigender molestation by characters who are not only fictitious, but downright mythical is too fucking schizophrenic for even a nutcase like me to find it marginally acceptable.!"

"Talky little thing, aintcha?" Xena remarked.

"Mouthy," corrected Ares. "Which can be very nice."

Xena's arms went around her, too, somehow meshing with Ares' so that the author was trapped between. Scribe squeaked. She'd only thought she was being mashed when Benton was on top of her.

"HEY! Ouch! Damn it, you got METAL on that outfit, Xena!"she complained. "Have a little consideration, for cryin' out loud."

"Where are my manners?" She took a step back and started to strip.

"Uh...that wasn't really what I meant..." Her breath was almost cut off by a squeeze from Ares, and she glanced back. *Well, well. That look is more glazed than the last dozen donuts I ate. According to canon and fanon, he's got it bad for Xena. I sure as hell can't break loose. Maybe a little distraction will work.*

She dropped her head back on Ares' shoulder. He glanced down at her in surprise. She smiled, and licked her lips. He looked suspicious, "What?"

She sighed. "Oh, well, I don't guess I'm going to get away this time."

A hand slid between her legs from behind, and she went up on her toes. "You got that right."

"But you know what would be really special? What would really get me in the mood to...er...enter into the spirit of things?"

Xena paused, unstrapping her brief leather skirt. "We don't have canned whipped cream here."

Ares growled. "I'm a god, remember? I could zap some up."

"No, no, no!" *God, Sandburg must have blabbed about that Thanksgiving story to everyone.* "I meant...a show."

Ares and Xena both looked at her, puzzled. "A show?" he said.

"You know," Scribe tilted her head toward Xena, back toward him, lifted her eyebrows suggestively. "A show."

They chorused, "Oooooh."

Xena grinned. "Xander Harris was right. You are a literary voyeur."

She lowered her gaze modestly. "Well, as previously stated, I AM a virgin. A little visual insturction could only help..." She considered, then rubbed her head back against Ares' shoulder, being sure that the soft curls rubbed over the bare skin. She thickened her southern accent to honey drip consistency. "Ahd be evah so grateful, 'cause otha wise ah doan't know if ah could satisfy such a big, strong man..." Melting look time toward the warrior princess "...or such a strong, beautiful woman." *No fluttering eyelashes, too obvious. Let's go for the trembling lips. Think vulnerable and submissive.*

They both seemed to be considering. At last Xena dropped a final piece of leather to the sand. "Well, I'm game."

Ares looked at her, looked down at Scribe. The hand moved, as she squeaked again. When she saw the look in his eyes she said quickly, "Of course, you might want to conserve your energy, so you wouldn't have to worry about..." She let her voice trail off suggestively.

His voice was ominous. "Worry about what?"

"Oh, hey, forget I said anything."

Another hand movement. (squeak) *Damn, I sound like the wiener dog's chew toy. It's humiliating. You asked for it, Rumbles.* "Well, it's just... After Joxer, Iolaus, Iphiclese, Hercules, Autolycus. I mean, it's perfectly natural, nothing to be ashamed of..." Move. (squeak) *What am I? Freakin' Minnie Mouse?* "It happens to every man eventually. Maybe you could zap up some Viagra, and..."

She was turned and lifted. Scribe found herself dangling, nose to nose with a very pissed off God of War. He hissed, "Are you insinuating that I wouldn't be able to perform?"

"Oh, no! Perish the thought. I'm sure you'll roger my brains out. It's just that making it with Xena first would probably be a little...uh...draining, seeing as how she's such a sexual tiger..." (quick, worshipful look at Warrior Princess, who smirks and nods.)

"You're joking. I could screw her into the ground and still have enough left to keep you busy for the next couple of weeks."

"Screw me into the ground, huh?" Xena put her hands on her hips, causing her bosom to lift. Somewhere in the cyber universe, hundreds of mesmerized fanboys and girls fell out of their swivel chairs.

"Now, now, oh Statuesque One. He didn't mean it that way," Scribe cooed. "It's just that, as women, we are naturally more delicate. Fragile." Those gas flame blue eyes were narrowing. *Careful, Scribe. You want her to prove it to him, not to you.* Luck of all luck, Ares had the bad judgement to nod.

"Oh yeah? Put her away, Ares. You and I have business before the festivities start."

"Why not? Might as well work up an appetite for the main course."

In a minute or two, the God of War and the Warrior Princess were both naked on the sand, vigorously running through an astonishing number of positions and techniques, thoroughly engrossed with each other. For the time being, they had forgotten about Scribe, which was exactly what she had planned.

However, she had not planned on being bound, hand and foot, by various leather strips from both of their garments. *Well, damn. I guess they can't all be as gullible as Fraiser. They knew I'd scamper as soon as they were distracted. Too clever for that. But...*

She began picking at the knot in the strip that bound her ankles. *Not clever enough to tie my hands behind my back. I think maybe they were hoping I'd play with myself.* She paused for a moment to eye the writhing bodies. *My god, these people are flexible. I really gotta get out of here. I'd need a year with a chiropractor to recover from something like that.*

Scribe managed to unwind the strip, got quietly to her feet, and sneaked away. Considering the egos of the couple, she figured she had a couple of hours before they quit tring to best each other and realized she was gone.

*I've got to get out of this fandom. If Xena was that horny dangerous, what the hell's gonna happen if I run into The Conquerer, or The Soveriegn? Eeps! As bad as Angelus.*

She had to find a passage of some sort back to the 'real' world, or at least to another section of her fanfic universe. The ocean was out. She couldn't risk trying to make it past the competitive fornication without being caught. Besides, even though she'd come to the conclusion that she couldn't die here, the very idea of walking into the ocean when, not only couldn't she swim, but her hands were bound, was just a little too much.

Remembering the quick passage from her house to the ocean liner, she thought that maybe just finding a building of some sort might do it. Step through a doorway from one place to another. But there didn't seem to be any structures here abouts.

A dark hole loomed in a hillside nearby. She considered the chance that it could contain a cyclops or harpy, then decided that it was worth the chance. After all, they'd be minor characters, and she should be able to escape them without too much difficulty.

She entered the cave. The light dimmed rapidly as she advanced into the interior. *Ooh, it's a DEEP bugger.* She kept walking. *Yup, this goes somewhere. I should have been out the other side by now. Damn, this is dark. Wait a minute, the floor feels different* She bent down and touched the ground. *Hm. Feels like...linoleum?*

Scribe, in total darkness, put out her bound arms and shuffled sideways, feeling carefully for the rough stone wall. She encoundered what felt like sheetrock, or possibly plaster. *What, better homes and cave dwellings?* Feeling along carefully, she encountered what could only be a light switch.

*I'm almost afraid to see.* Still, there didn't seem to be many alternatives, so she flipped the switch.

She was in a basement. A regular sort of basement, there was no cave stretching back behind her now. She blew out a sigh of relief. *Well, that puts the Greek menace behind me.* She had the grace to wince at the (unintended, mostly) double entendre.

Scribe looked around. Hm. Pretty big basement for a private home. Lots of stuff stored. Wait a minute. Several coin operated washers and driers. Aha, that explained it. Apartments. So, if this was a basement, there had to be...

Yes, there it was. A stairwell. Taking a deep breath, Scribe started to climb up into whatever lunacy was upstairs.

Part Five

Scribe made it to the top of the stairs and peeked out. Perfectly normal looking hallway. Like the basement, it seemed to belong to a rather sizeable apartment building. She tried to decide whether she should make her way outside, just knock on a door at random, or try to find the superintendent and warn him that he might develop a centaur infestation in the basement if the cave came back.

Speaking of which, a little more distance was probably advisable. She had no doubt that being a god *as he is so very fond of reminding people*, Ares would have no problem doing the blink/transport bit that Jarod had found so impressive. Her best bet was to be sure he couldn't locate her. She most definitely didn't want to run into him after that 'roger my brains out' comment. Gods seemed to like challenges.

While she was trying to make up her mind, a blonde woman came around the corner, carrying a basket of laundry. She stopped short and squealed, "It's you!"

Scribe flinched. *Shit! I forgot that there were people out there writing fics about Friends. But... these are pretty non aggressive characters. Maybe I can grab a rest this time.* "Well, it was me last time I looked in a mirror, but I haven't been feeling like myself lately. Quick, check, is it still me?" The other woman peered at Scribe's face intently, then nodded. *That girl's head must whistle Dixie when the wind blows.* "Boy, that's a relief."

"Oh my God! You've got to come with me and meet the gang! C'mon!" She grabbed Scribe by the bound wrists and started dragging her. Scribe sighed, and followed along rather than be dragged. She was starting to understand the trapped looks on the faces of celebrities at conventions when they were swarmed.

Phoebe dragged her into a familiar looking apartment inhabited by two other women and three men. "Monica, Rachel, Ross, Chandler, Joey! Look!" She shoved Scribe forward.

There was a chorus of greetings. Scribe twiddled her fingers, since waving was rather difficult. "Could somebody?" There was a moment of hesitation, gazes zipping between everyone. *Damn. I'm gonna have to get out of here after all. But I have to sit down for a few minutes.*

"It would be a shame if my circulation was cut off, and I lost the use of my fingers, and couldn't write anymore." Not that Ares had tied her that tightly. He seemed to be very proficient with bondage skills. She couldn't get loose, but she wasn't really pinched, either. Still, the ploy worked, and they managed to pick the knots loose quickly.

Scribe declined Monica's offer to slice through the strap with one of her chef's knifes. *Fuck no. One slip, draw blood, and it'll probably attract vampires around here*

She rubbed her wrists, and sat in the middle of the couch. She was instantly surrounded. Joey bumped Chandler out of the way to sit on her left, so he sat at the end, on his other side. That put Ross on her right, with Rachel on that other end. Phoebe sat cross legged on the floor, and Monica hovered behind the couch. After a moment, Scribe said, "Why do I feel like a centerpiece?"

Joey draped an arm across her shoulders and said suavely, "I think you make an excellent center...piece."

She rubbed her face. "Look, people, can we just talk for a little while? I mean, that's what ya'll do the most, besides have sex and drink coffee."

"Alright. What turns you on?" Chandler said brightly. He received a smack upside the head from Monica. "Ow! Damn, Cupcake! Well, we all want to know, and we talk, but we mostly talk about sex, right?" There was a general murmur of agreement."

"I thought that you people over here knew all about the way I think, since you're part of my imagination."

"Well, Xander may have exaggerated a bit," Ross explained. "We've got a good idea how your mind works, but there are parts of you that remain deep, dark, and fascinating. What really races your motor is one of them."

*What the hell. I'm forewarned, and I don't have to tell everything. They'll never guess about...P.O.G.*

"Okay. There are three things. One, a sexy body, but my definition of sexy is flexible." Joey cleared his throat and casually flexed his biceps, then threw a leg over her lap. She removed it. "Put that away. Two, an accent. Doesn't matter much what kind, but Midwest and fer shure are way down on the list."

"Aay, youse dig da voices, eh?" She clapped a hand over Joey's mouth to spare herself anymore, then jerked her hand away when he licked her palm.

"I give it a three and a half. Last, but most important, most...devastating..." They leaned closer. *Do I dare say this out loud? What if they guess the secret of...P.O.G?* A beat. *Nah* "I'm afraid my greatest weakness is...P.O.G.

" "Pog?" It was a chorus. She suddenly found herself in a flurry of flat, brightly colored cardboard discs.

"Where the hell did you people get those damn things? Cripes, you should have had to at least leave the room to hunt them up. And no, not pog. P. O. G."

Rachel frowned. "You're talking in capitals."

"Oo, I know!" Joey said excitedly. "It's an acrostic."

Chandler gave him a look. "Wrong word."

"Acoustic?" Head shake. "Abercrombie?"

Scribe rolled her eyes. "Will someone please have mercy on him before he gives himself a brain aneurism?"

"Acronym, Joey." Ross supplied. "Each letter stands for a separate word. So, what are the words."

Scribe crossed her arms and said archly. "I said I'd tell you my three main triggers. I didn't say I'd explain them."

Monica stamped her foot. "But that's not fair!"

Scribe craned her neck to look back at her. "Normally I'd stick my tongue out at you, but I'm afraid someone would get the wrong idea around here."

Phoebe waved her hands, "Okay, okay! We can figure this out together! Brainstorm!" Chandler, Monica, Rachel, and Ross all stared at her, then at Joey. "All right brain sprinkle. I guess....Pick Out Grapes." They all stared, including Scribe. "Well, grapes are sexy. Kinda. Except those kind with the slimy seeds that get stuck in your teeth..."

Joey tried to lift the hem of her shorts up. "Please Ogle Gams?" She smacked him.

Rachel poked Ross. "Your turn."

"I'm trying to come up with one for Paleontologist."

"Look, this is great fun, but I really need to be going." She started to stand up.

Phoebe pushed her back. "Wait, wait! Don't you think I have a great body for someone who's had triplets?"

Out of patience, Scribe spluttered. "Oh, hell, people. Alright. I'll jump the bones of anyone who can answer one question in a logical, rational manner that will hold water back in the non fanfic world." They held their breaths. "If all of you are perpetually in financial straights, with generally low paying jobs, how can you afford such nice apartments in a sky high rent city like New York where infested ratholes can run close to a thousand a month?" Dead silence. "Thought so."

Her horniness detection instinct beeped, and she lunged forward just in time to avoid ending up on the bottom of a dogpile. Monica, who'd been standing behind the couch, threw herself in front of the door, arms spread wide. "Wait! You can't leave."

Scribe laughed out loud. "Are you kidding? You're what, a size zero?" She lifted Monica, set her aside, and opened the door.

Monica made a last ditch attempt. "I'll feed you!"

Scribe froze, looking back slowly. She eyed the couch, where the others were slowly untangling. It had been a long time since that bowl of store brand Cheerios before Xander Harris snatched her over to the other side. "What?"

"Goat cheese, onion, and spinach timbale."

Scribe shuddered. "You know, if you had Pop Tarts, I might have considered."

As she exited, Monica was screaming, "Joey! I need the keys to your apartment!"

Part Six

Out in the hall, Scribe headed for a stairwell that seemed most likely to lead down to the entry hall. She heard voices below, and stopped. It was not prudent to fly headlong into a situation around here. One was likely to find oneself in unbelievably compromising positions. Positions that were most likely to be found in a copy of 'The Joy of Sex." She peeked around the edge, peering down.

From this vantage point, she had a view of the bank of mailboxes in the entry. Two men in suits were standing there, studying the name plates. The tall, brown haired one said, "Tell me again, Munch. Why are we looking for her here?"

The older, dark haired man took off his glasses and polished them briefly. "Christ, Baylis. I got a tip, okay?"

"But from who?"

"The same anonymous snitch who knows every other fact in the finite universe, and considerately passes them along to the police. You don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Particularly when it can lead us to our luscious pen pusher."

"Speaking of that, you'd better go first. I may take awhile, since I practise tatric sex..."

She sneaked down the hall to the other staircase. She wasn't about to risk ending up in 'The Box' with any of these lechers Besides...cops carried handcuffs.

The next floor featured another nondescript hallway. The only thing different was that there was a newspaper lying in front of one door, with an orange and yellow tabby cat sitting beside it. Being cat dependent, this caught Scribe's attention. She couldn't resist pausing to stroke the feline's silky fur. It squeezed it's eyes at her, meowing softly.

Scribe nearly fainted as she was hit by an almost palpable cloud of rotten-eggs-and-fish fumes. Stumbling, she stared in astonishment at the small cat. It ducked it's head almost sheepishly. "O-kaaaay. Now we know where Phoebe got the inspiration for the 'Smelly Cat' song." She waved away the fumes as much as possible.

Scribe picked up the paper to fan the air. Hm, the Chicago Sun Times. Let's see, that made New York, Baltimore, and Chicago characters all in one place. That was stretching it, even for fan fiction. Talk about crossovers. She split the paper in two sections to fan more effectively. A headine on the social section caught her eye, and she paused to read. *FAMOUS FAN FIC AUTHOR FINALLY FU...Oh, hell no.* She looked at the door the paper had been lying in front of. *Hobson* She looked at the cat. It grinned at her. *Well, at least I don't make the front page. But why do I get the feeling that this is one article he's not going to be frantically racing around, trying to prevent?*

Scribe heard footsteps aproaching on the other side of the door. Resisting the urge to read and find out who she was supposed to succumb to, she took off again. *I do, huh? I don't believe! Hobson ain't the only one who can change the future.*

She hurried up the stairs, hoping she could locate a fire escape she could take down. In the next hall, she paused to catch her breath, leaning her forehead agains a closed door.

Said door opened. A hand emerged, grabbed her shirt, and jerked her inside. *Shit. Here we go again.*

Whoever it was pulled and let go, but the momentum of the jerk carried her several yards into the room before she could stop. She turned around to see a short, wiry man locking the door.

He had spikey blonde hair, and was wearing a rather hideously patterened shirt. "Ray?"

He sighed. "Call me Stan. I get really sick of the confusion this damn undercover schtict causes." He shook a finger at her, grinning. "Fraiser is pissed with you. He's bitching that the mountie is supposed to get his man,not the other way around."

"I'll send him a candygram by way of apology."

"The guy stole Ben's tunic. He's stuck wearing his second best till he can get it replaced. But he says he's willing to forgive you." Stan shook his head. "How the guy can do it, after the shit he's had with women..."

"Yeah, we're all bitches. I'll just be leaving..."

He stepped in front of her, arms spread like a center defending his zone. "Uh uh. I wasn't dissing you, I was just commenting on Benny's shitty luck. I..." He hitched his belt up. "Am ready to get very lucky."

"Oh, cripes."

"Okay, I got the sexy body. Hopefully the Chicago accent counts. And as for P.O.G." He dangled a short leather strap with studs, then buckled it around his neck. "Putting On Gear?"

"Actually, that's a pretty good one. But not."

"Piss. Oh well."

He advanced. She backed up. *I seem to be in reverse as much as I'm in drive these days.* Scribe cast about mentally for a way out.

"I can hear those gears clicking. Don't bother with the eyelash bit. I'm on to that. And I don't feel the need to get into a fucking contest with anyone, so that's out, too. And I know there ain't anyone sexy behind me."

*Well, shit. Why can't I ever use a trick twice?* She hastily reviewed all the fan fiction she'd read on Due South, searching for a Stanley Kowalski weakness. Other than Fraiser, she could only think of one.

There was a radio sitting on the coffee table. She edged over to it.

"Whatcha doin', babe?" he asked suspiciously.

"Oh, you know. A little music to set the mood."

*Radios in fan fiction always have appropriate music playing* The strains of 'The Beer Barrel Polka' blared into the room, and she winced. *Unless it's COMIC fan fiction.* She changed channels as Stan drew closer and closer. *Mozart...Perry Como...RUBBER DUCKY?!* Finally, just as Stan was reaching for her, she hit 'Fire' by Earth, Wind, and Fire.

As Stan reached for her, she quickly turned and bumped her right hip against his. He froze. She spun and bumped the opposite hip against him. He stared. She turned and did a tushie push, again bumping his hip.

"What are you doing?"

"The Bump."

He blinked. When she threw her hip at him again, he turned slightly and met it with his own. Then did it again. Soon they were both dancing steadily, bumping high, bumping low. *Hah, I was right. He can't resist dancing. Now, if I can just work my way over to the door...*

Easier thought than done. She hadn't considered when she started it that constant wiggling and shifting hip bumps might have a different sort of distracting effect. That last bump against her butt wasn't from a hip, and it wasn't exactly soft, either.

*Whups! Better change to something I can do the Rocking Chair to. Get a little distance here.* But when she turned the dial, a hot salsa number poured out.

Ray gave a happy yell. "Lambada!"

"Shit!" Before the startled exclaimation was out of her mouth, Stan braced his legs wide apart, jerked her between his thighs and against his crotch, bent her back, and started writhing to the beat.

Scribe had to hold on to keep from ending up on the floor. She did that because it would have meant that Stan would have ended up on top of her. There was a question as to whether or not her maiden hood would survive the trip down and impact. She reached back, flailing frantically, and managed to hit the tuning knob.

Industrial techno dance music filled the room. Stan growled in frustration, but was helpless to resist. He unclamped her, and continued dancing. "Don't touch that thing again," he warned. "As soon as this one is over, I'm gonna do to you what my namesake did to Blanche DuBoise."

Scribe ponied, hustled, boogied, swam, fruged, watutsied, trucked and vogued her way to the side wall, inch by inch, then made a dive. Ray caught her as she was jerking the window up.

Not stopping to think, she used shock tactics. Instead of trying to escape, she whirled, grabbed Stan's face firmly, and laid a lip lock on him. His mouth dropped open in surprise, and she made a serious effort to lick his tonsils. His arms dropped in bewildered shock, and she dove out the window onto the fire escape.

As she started to clamber down, she heard the door in the apartment open. "Stanley, why is the radio playing at such an oppressive volume? Why do you have such a glazed look on your face? And why are you wearing that, if I may say so, stunningly hot dog collar? Have you been imbibing at this early hour? Let me smell your breath." There was a pause. Just as she hit the alley there was a bellow of "SCRIBE!"

Part Seven

Scribe hurried out of the alley. *Okay, where the hell am I?* She heard clunking bootsteps that heralded someone on the fire escape behind her. *Run now, recognoiter later. He won't fall for the eyelashes twice. If I don't move it, I'll lose it. And for me, in this universe, that expression has a WHOLE new level of meaning.*

A taxicab was sitting at the curb, and she quickly climbed in the back. Alex turned, hooking an arm back over the seat, and said, "We can negotiate the fare. Louie said to ask you if P.O.G. stands for Portly Old Gents It's a personal interest." She climbed out the other side.

Benton Fraiser exited the alley, looking around. He spotted her, and she froze, grinning weakly. "Hi, Frase. Nice hickey."

He gingerly touched the red mark on the side of his neck. It almost matched the too tight red tunic he was wearing. "That Jarod person is a remarkably enthusiastic individual. While it was an interesting experience, it was not what I had in mind." He shook his finger at her. "I am very annoyed with you, Miss Scribe. That was a highly unladylike thing to do."

"Who's spreading the rumor that I'm a lady?" she demanded. "I said I was a virgin, I never said I was a lady."

He sighed. "I am not here to argue semantics. Now, come here and be deflowered."

"Well, geez, how could anyone resist such a seductive invitation? Go jump Stanley."

He shrugged his massive shoulders. "Been there. Done that." He started across the street.

She was looking for a plausible exit when the shimmer enveloped her.

When next she blinked, she was standing on a dias, on one of several circles. Someone she didn't recognise *Thank God! A bit player.* spoke into what looked like a badge on his shirt. "Captain, transportation was successful."

A familiar voice answered. "Excellent. Have Security bring her to my quarters."

"Oh, uh uh! The Great Horndog of the Universe? I don't think so!" She pelted off the dias and through an archway. *What is it with this universe? I keep running into Canadians.*

Problem was, there weren't a whole lot of hiding places on a spaceship. She did, however, locate the air vent that is required in every structure known to fan fiction and uninspired movies. It was, of course, large enough to crawl through, so that was what she did.

*I don't know what good this is doing me. I'm just crawling around inside an enclosed environment, and I have no earthly idea how to...sheesh, bad pun...how to get back to earth. But it's better than waiting for ol' Jim the Lad to glom onto me. I guess I'm lucky I haven't run into any Ferengi. Yeesh! Talk about pigs in space. They'd probably want me to chew their food as foreplay.*

As required by fan fiction law, she came to a vent looking into a room where she could overhear significant dialogue. It turned out to be sickbay.

"I don't understand it," grumbled Bones. "Why the sudden run on condoms?"

"It is perfectly logical, Doctor. Scribe has been beamed on board, and is now loose in the ship."

"Oh, okay. But why are you requisitioning them? You aren't due for pon far for another two years."

"In this case, Leonard, I am willing to make an exception."

She kept crawling. Going around a turn, she bumped heads with someone. "OW! This has to be the only air vent in space with traffic flow problems, and I crawl into it." She barked, sitting back on her heels and rubbing her head.

She found herself face to face with a brown haired young man with a a rather Beatleish style haircut. He grinned. "Sorry. Next time I will beep before turning a corner."

"Hi, Chekov."

"Greetings, Scribe." He lunged.

There was no room to dodge, of course. There shouldn't be room to have sex, either, but Chekov seemed to be doing his best to ignore this fact.

"Oof! Hey! What happened to all that advanced civilization respect for the sanctity of a woman's choice?"

"I'm getting in touch with my inner cossack. Relax, vohzlyublyenniy. We Russians invented sex."

There was a moment or two of squirming. "I don't believe this. I mean, I should be safe here. I don't even know how you guys get your flies open. I mean, there's no visible fastening, and..." RIIIIIIIP. A quick glance down. "Damn, you mean velcro survived to this century?!"

"By the way, P.O.G...Does it stand for Pavel on Girl?"

"No."

"It will soon. Now I can fulfill our mission statement."

Scribe looked horrified. "No! Not that!"

"Yes. I'm going to..."

"NO! Don't say it!"

"Yes! I'm going to..."

"I'm warning you! I'll hurt you!"

"...go where no man has gone before!" he finished triumphantly.

A split second later Scribe lifted a knee into his crotch, making him bang his head on the metal roof, and yell something most likely extemely obscene in Russian (but they don't put those type of words in free online dictionaries). As she crawled back the way she came, she snarled. "Yeah, and in space, no one can hear you scream!"

She almost made it back to the vent before the next shimmer overtook her.

When she looked up, she was on another dias very similar to the one she'd arrived on before. She moved immediately, because, even as she was coalescing into solid form, she had decided that appearing on hands and knees in this universe was a very dangerous proposition.

There was a man with very pale skin and gold eyes at the controls this time. She eyed him warily. "Pre or post emotions?"

"Pre. But post Tasha Yar."

"Crap." She ran.

Part Eight

*Corridors, corridors, corridors. Where's a fucking phone booth when you need it? Not even a potted plant. Of course, with my luck, I'd end up finding Arte Johnson behind it in a Nazi helmet, and Clark Kent would be in the phone booth.*

Scribe slowed to a stroll as she passed a couple of crew members, trying to look nonchallant. It wasn't easy when she was wearing sleepwear. Luckily they were obviously back ground extras, so they didn't pursue.

*Okay, let's see...ST:TNG...Who are my main threats? Riker...Not with that beard. I don't want to be tickled to death. I already dodged Data. Lord, I hope Q is off doing something interesting. I don't think I'd be able to get away from him. He knows from devious, and he's a bigger smartass than I am. Hopefully Troi hasn't gone gay. That would leave...*

A dark, massive hand fell on her shoulder. "...Worf."

She was turned, and stared up into the Klingon's impassive face. "Scribe. Captain Picard wishes to speak with you."

"I bet. Look, he's bound to just want to give me tea, so could we skip it?"

"I am afraid not."

"I was afraid you'd say that." She let her shoulder drop under the weight of his hand and said meekly, "Could you ease up just a touch? I'm going to be one big bruise."

With his brow ridges, it was hard to tell if his forehead furrowed or not, but there was a scant hint of contrition in his tone. "I am sorry. I forget how...fragile you human females are."

His touch lightened a little. "Thanks." With an abrupt, wrenching twist she jerked out of his grasp and sprinted toward the first open archway she saw.

He was right after her. "QIt bIqet 'ej qanarghQo!"

*Cripes, and me without my concise Klingon/English dictionary! (but it's somethin' along the lines of 'Dang! You're pathetically slow.) Still, I'm pretty sure he's not complimenting my speed and agility.* Scribe barged through the archway and into what was obviously the ship's watering hole. She skidded to a halt up against a bar.

An amused looking black woman with long braids and no eyebrows grinned at her impishly. "Figured you'd show up here sooner or later."

"Sorry, no time to talk. Dodging a pissed off Klingon."

"That IS pretty much a full time occupation, " Guinnan agreed. "Still, you could probably use a quick one."

"I'm trying to avoid..." Guinnan was putting a small bottle on the bar. "Oh, that. Yeah, come to think of it, I could." She took the bottle. "Cheers."

Guinnan rolled her eyes. "Please don't mention that show. I have issues with one of the stars."

"Sorry." Scribe chugged whatever the hell it was in the bottle, then smacked her lips. "Not bad. Lemonade?"

"Kassalian Mellow Maker. Say Scribe, that P.O.G. thing, it wouldn't happen to stand for Pissed Off Guard, would it?"

"Not even close."

"Then this is not your day." She looked toward the archway.

Worf pounded into the lounge. A charging Klingon, even a familiar one, can clear a room pretty fast. You just never know. Most of the other crewmembers scatted. Spotting Scribe at the bar, he stalked toward her. She looked at Guinnan. "Do you think there's any way we could pour three or four gallons of this stuff down his gullet?"

Guinnan scratched her chin. "You got a phaser on you?" Scribe shook her head, and the other woman shrugged. "Maybe if we can borrow a couple of squadrons of Storm Troops from that other fandom."

"I don't think Darth shares his toys." Worf stopped in front of her, glowering. She said brightly, "There you are, slowpoke! I'm already one ahead of you, you'll have to catch up."

"You will accompany me to the captain's quarters. Please do not make me carry you."

"Tingle tingle." He frowned. Okay, she hadn't used the 'look who's here' tactic since she'd arrive. She couldn't think of anything else with approximately six and a half feet of Klingon between her and the only exit. *Okay, let's see...I need someone big, dark, sexy, and scary dangerous. I haven't read any Worf slash, so I better add at least nominally female, which lets out Dennis Rodman. That leaves one choice.* She pointed. "Look! Grace Jones!" Worf folded his arms. "Oh, you heard of that one, huh?"

"Mister Giles has been collecting a fact sheet of your past methods of escape and distributing it. One may obtain a copy on the strict agreement that you will be handed over to someone named 'Ripper' after a short period of time."

*Oh, cripes! They're organizing!* "Please don't force me to do something that's probably very stupid." Worf pulled what looked like a pair of handcuffs off his belt. She sighed. "Stupid it is." She started to swing the empty Kassalian Mellow Maker bottle.

Guinnan, alarmed, cried, "Scribe, no!" Too late. She whacked him over the head with the empty bottle, which dutifully shattered.

Worf stared at her. He showed his teeth in what was most certainly not a smile. Guinnan groaned, "Oh, girl, that was so inadvisable."

Scribe backed a little farther away, bumping against the bar as she eyed the security chief with growing nervousness. He was growling. "Geez, no need to take it so serious. I mean, it hardly fazed you, did it? No hard feelings?"

Guinnan was shaking her head. "Different kind of hard feelings, baby. You're not up on your Klingon culture, are you? You just gave him a major come on."

Scribe winced. "Uh oh."

Worf crooked a finger at her. "HIghoS."

Guinnan translated. "He says, come here."

"I got that. Uh uh."

The warrior took a step closer. "qaneH!"

"He says, I want you." Guinnan supplied helpfully.

Scribe mentally began writing her will. "Worf, are you familiar with the concept of Platonic relationships?"

Another growl. "tugh qajoj'uSDu'raj be'!"

Guinnan whistled and fanned herself. "He says, I'll be between your legs soon, woman!"

"You know, the one thing I always thought about when I did it for the first time was the fact that I would survive it, and still be able to walk. I always took that as a given."

Guinnan set a tall glass of some bubbly, faintly smokeing blue liquid on the bar. "Worf, buddy, I gotta buy a drink for the man who finally caught this little devil. Have a snort before the mating commences. Drink it fast, before it loses it's fizz."

"Thank you." Not taking his eyes off the cornered author, Worf downed the drink in one long gulp. "Now..." He reached toward Scribe, and continued the motion all the way to the floor. The crash made the floor vibrate.

Scribe stared at him. "What was that you gave him?"

"A Pangalactic Gargleblaster. My friend Zaphod taught it to me. Now you better scoot while you can."

"Why'd you help me?" she asked curiously.

"Cause I been after his sexy ass for years, whitebread. Now go."

She got.

Part Eight

Scribe jogged back in the direction she had come. *I gotta get off this flying tin can. There's no place to RUN. I hope Data's gone off duty. I don't need him trying to prove that claim he made to Tasha Yar of being 'fully functional.*

Luck was with her. When she peeked into the transporter room, there was an unknown manning the controls. When he saw her, his face lit up. "Oh boy! The captain promised a one week pass to a Tumescian pleasure resort to whoever brings you in."

'Pardon me, but I want to try something." She reached out and gripped his shoulder hard, just where it joined the neck. He stiffened, then dropped unconscious. She looked at her own hand in mild astonishment. *Son of a bitch. Wrong series, but it worked. Now, let's see...*

She examined the controls. *I wonder if I could use this bugger to beam myself back home? Yeah, maybe if I had a fucking clue about how to set coordinates. Besides, that would make too much sense. Oh well, any old port in a storm.* She started turning knobs and moving switches at random, till the lights on the board were blinking in an aesthetically pleasing pattern.

There was a large dial that looked like an oven timer, and a big red button. She gave the dial a quarter turn. When she released it, nothing happened, so she pushed the button. The dial started winding back, ticking. *Bingo.*

She went and stood on one of the circles on the dias, and waited. There was a , and the now familiar shimmer spread over her. She reflected that if P.O.G. stood for Plenty Of Glitter, this could legitimately be seen as self abuse.

She materialized in a fairly normal looking forest. *Oh, please, not again. I am not nature girl. If I end up having to dispose of bodily fluids out of doors I will be very upset.*

There was a cute, but rather gawky man sitting on a nearby log. She eyed him warily, debating whether she should flee immediately, or could afford to take a breather. He was dressed in atiquated clothing, which included bits of leather armor. He also appeared to be wearing a collander on his head. She ventured. "You didn't even blink when I shimmered in."

He shrugged. "We get that all the time around here, what with all the gods."

She recognized him now. How could she have missed it with that ventilated hat? "Hi, Joxer."

He gave her a goofy, pleased grin. "Hi. You recognize me."

"Sure. I feel a bit of kinship with you. You get devirginized by Ares almost as often as Xander Harris does by Angel."

He sighed. "Yeah. Bit humiliating for a warrior. Oh, it's fun and all, but at least Harris gets to pitch instead of catch on a fairly regular basis."

"You're also not lunging at me. Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but that is pretty odd for a name character around here. What gives?"

He shrugged. "You know how things are with me. I'd probably just trip."

"Point taken. Shove over." He scooted to one side, and she sat beside him, exhaling loudly. "Whuff! My feet are starting to hurt. I gotta get out of this place soon so I can get some sleep without having to worry about waking up experienced."

He brightened. "I could guard you."

She patted his cheek. "Thanks, sweetie. But I was thinking more along the lines of sealing myself in a bank vault."

He nodded. "That would be pretty effective. Unless that 'Once a Thief' guy is around. Anyway, I want to have a guess at P.O.G."

"Alright. Thrill me."

"Gee, I hope so." He held up a glittering object. Scribe looked more closely, and whistled softly. It was a gold chain, with a large gold medallian. Joxer draped it around her neck and said, "Presents of Gold?"

"Ya know, I almost hate to tell you no. But anyway, this is the most logical try yet." She thought. "Okay, it ties with Stanley." She looked at the pendent more closely. "Unusual design. Sword against a background of burning buildings..." She looked at him suspiciously. "Joxer, where did you get this?"

"Uhhhhhh...."

CRASH! "JOXER! I leave you alone in my temple for one minute, and you start filching from my offerings!" Ares had appeared right in front of the would-be warrior, and hoisted him in the air by a firm grip on his tunic. "You've been hanging around with Autolycus again, haven't you?"

"After what you did to me last time? Not likely."

"Where the Hades is that necklace you took?"

"Don't be pissed, sweetie. I took it for a good reason." he babbled.

"What possible good reason?"

"Bait. I used it as a lure for Scribe. I know how hot you are for her, and I thought I'd make a present to you." He looked at the angry god soulfully. Scribe used the fluttering eyelashes, Joxer used the big, sad puppydog eyes.

Ares' expression smoothed a little. "Well, you should have said so in the first place. That IS a pretty decent reason."

"And it worked, too." he said proudly. "Scribe, I'm sorry about the deceit, but you gotta understand..." He turned to look at her. The other side of the log was bare. "Scribe? She was here a second ago."

Ares cocked his head, and heard a faint rustling in the distance, as of someone hightailing it through underbrush. "Damn! Missed her again! And I'm down one necklace. Joxer..." He lifted the smaller man up till their faces were level. "We're going to have to have a long, long...long....talk."

Joxer winced, and sighed. "Ya know, I'm feeling a certain amount of kinship with Scribe right now."

At that moment, Scribe was mentally stringing together as many obscene and vulgar words as she could remember, as she tried (with moderate success) to avoid brambles as she escaped. She couldn't manage to get past eight without ruining the grammar of the sentance, and finally gave up in favor of the familiar mantra of *Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.*

It started to rain. *MotherFUCKING shit.* she corrected herself. *Me and my stupid remark about ports and storms.*

A great, grey shape loomed up ahead in the rain. It turned out to be a granite outcropping where a solid mass of stone, the size of a small hill, had burst up through the soil. The good thing was that there was a shallow overhang, high enough to stand under. Scribe darted under it, getting out of the rain. The grass under here was only slightly damp, and she sat down to wait out the storm.

Hah. Like she'd have that much peace.

Two men darted in out of the curtain of rain. The one with long, blonde curly hair looked at the bigger one and said, "See? I deserve my title of the Golden Hunter. I told you I had the trail."

"When you're right, you're right, Iolaus." Hercules agreed.

Scribe held her head, moaning, "Aren't there people you guys should be rescuing? Isn't that your job?"

"Sure." Iolaus explained, "We're here to save you from a life of celibacy."

Hercules nodded vigorously. "That would be a sin, and since we're dedicated to fighting evil..."

"That's some of the most convoluted, self serving logic I've ever heard of." Scribe complained.

Iolaus shrugged. "What do you expect from him? He's a half god."

Hercules sidled toward her. "Say, does P.O.G. stand for Pump on Grass?"

"Certainly not."

"Okay. Give me a second and I'll spread out the bedrolls."

While he was doing that, Iolaus started to edge closer. "You're a fan fiction author, right?"

"Ye-es."

"What would you say were my two major characteristics in fan fiction?"

"Uh...well, let's see. You eat like there's no tomorrow, and you're terminally horny."

"Correct!" He licked his lips and gave her a lascivious smile. "Want to guess how we can combine those two elements?"

"One thing to be said for water: It makes you slippery." She demonstrated by squirting out of his grip when she shot past him, disappearing into the rain once again.

*This really isn't fair. It's hard enough getting away from these lechers one at a time. Now my universe has to start throwing pairs and more at me. My imagination isn't satisfied with just trying to debauch me, it wants me in a freakin' orgy! Cripes, I'm changing my password when I get home. If Mom ever accidentally hacks in and reads some of this stuff...*

Part 9

Scribe skidded to a halt, up to her ankles in damp leaves, and snarled, "I've had about all this natural crap I can stand! My idea of roughing it is cable instead of satalite. I want concrete and walls! NOW!" she bellowed.

Everything sort of...rippled. She couldn't be positive, but she imagined she could almost hear a cosmic voice mutter, "WELL, IF YOU'RE GOING TO BE SUCH A BITCH ABOUT IT..."

Once the fun house mirror effect was over, she looked around. Alright, first, it wasn't raining any more. One good point, anyway. She stamped her feet. *Hm, looks more like marble than concrete, but I suppose beggars can't be choosers.* She wrung a stream of water out of her shirtfront, and slapped her own wrist in punishment, remembering the last time she had used a cliche.

*Lemme see...walls, check. Okay, where am I?* She started walking. *Damn, big room. Big room, marble floors... shit! I hope the freakin' Powers that Be didn't drop me down in somebody's temple! Especially not Ares.* (shudder, shudder)(sneeze)(sniff) *Crap. I can blame one of the shudders on the heebie-jeebies, but the other one and the achoo-snort is from the damn dousing. It's chilly in here...Better not think that. Someone will read my mind and show up, offering to keep me warm.*

"Speaking of which..." She whirled around, to find a tall, bearded man in robes standing right behind her.

"How the fuck did you do that?!" she yelped. "The nearest door is about fifty feet away, and in plain sight, and don't tell me you transported, 'cause there wasn't any damn glitter."

He shrugged, "The ways of the universe are mysterious, Daughter."

She stamped her feet again. "No incest! Not even pseudo, got me?!"

"Oh, look, it's a metaphorical phrase implying..."

"Can it, Qui-Gon. Don't say that unless your intentions toward me are REALLY paternal, in the strictest possible sense."

"Well...uh..."

"Thought so. And I swear, if you offer to show me 'The Force', I'll land you one right where I did for Chekov."

Somebody's arms went around her from behind, and a voice in her ear crooned, "How about if I show you my real lightsaber?" She glanced back, getting a glimpse of an impish face.

She groaned, "That deserves at least one of these." She stamped on his foot. It might have been more effective if she hadn't been barefoot. She shook her bruised feeling foot, swearing creatively. Qui-Gon, looking shocked, covered his padawan's ears. Obi-Wan rolled his eyes.

After a minute, she wound down. "All right. What are you going to do with me, she asked with naivity bordering on stupidity."

Obi-Wan gave her bosom a squeeze. "Well, duh."

"Just a moment, Son..." Qui-Gon said.

Obi-Wan whispered in her ear. "You're right, ya know. He is kinky. But fun. Trust me." She groaned.

"Scribe, we want to offer you a unique opportunity."

"Such as?"

"The Force is obviously with you. You created all this..." his hands swept around. "Plus you've managed to escape dozens of rabidly horny men and women with your cherry still intact."

"Yeah, I'm kinda proud of that." She looked back over her shoulder at Obi-Wan. "Some of those pervs were very determined." He nodded. She looked closer. *Ooo, a braid!* (tingle) *Yow!* (pant) He smiled at her. *Uh oh.* She mentally shook herself.

Qui-Gon, missing the byplay, continued. "You show great potential. I'm willing to take you on as a padawan, and train you with Obi-Wan."

"I thought this was a one-to-one master/apprentice thingy."

This time she felt a warm, damp tongue swipe her ear. "He can 'train' two. Trust me again. And he can rest and recharge while we practice."

"Tell ya what, why don't you take that light saber and shove it." She was glaring back over her shoulder at him, and caught the slow smile. "Oh no! You didn't."

"Not many people know that those things have different power settings."

"Okay, NOW I'm squicked."

Qui-Gon said, "Come on, padawans. We don't want to start the training out here in public. We'll attract crowds."

Obi-Wan said, "Yeah. We need some privacy so I can explore your dark side." He humped against her butt.

"Damn, and to think I dumped a perfectly good mountie for this! At least he says please." (sneeze)(sniff) "Damn!"

Qui-Gon said, "Maybe we should run you by the healers first."

"Ah," said Obi-Wan, still hunching, "Can't we just fix her some of that herbal tea crud back at the quarters?"

"You asked for it." Scribe leaned down and wiped her runny nose on his sleeve.

"Eeww!" He let go with that arm to shake his sleeve.

Which gave her just enough slack to wriggle free and make a dash for the door. As she ran, hearing pursuing footsteps, she hollered, "Whoever or whatever is in charge of transport in this looney bin, I wanna end up in a normal, modern city when I get through that door. Got that? Or I swear, nothing but GEN from now on!" she threatened.

Everything rippled again as she plunged through the door, and the sound of footsteps faded behind her...

Part 10

*Note to self: Try to come up with some really, really nasty owies for The Powers That Be.* Scribe thought this as she picked herself up from the pile of flattened cardboard boxes she'd landed on after running almost full tilt into a brick wall. *Damn, that felt like Fraiser. Shit. Well, I suppose it could always be worse...*

There was a massive BOOM overhead, and she was once again drenched by a chilly downpour. She sighed heavily. "Crap."

It was raining so hard she had to look carefully to make out the direction of the entrance to the alley. She hesitantly began to pick her way toward it, grumbling under her breath. "Why the hell are alleys in fan fiction always so nasty? Maybe I can start a trend where the sanitation workers actually pick up the trash, and someone sweeps up the broken glass once a millineum. I don't even want to THINK about what this stuff is."

She started to skid on the greasy pavement, and barely caught herself. Almost to the exit, she paused. Over the rush of the rain, she could hear footsteps approaching. Better to find out who it was instead of just waltzing out in front of them. She flattened against the wall.

A man and a woman, tucked under umbrellas, passed on the sidewalk. The woman was shaking her head and muttering in what sounded like Russian. The man was saying, "No, hear me out, Olga. I take the sphere back, and I can get to her before Xander Harris even thinks about making the snatch! It's perfect!"

"Except for the fact that the sphere won't seat two, you greedy bastard."

She waited till the sound had faded, then tiptoed out onto the sidewalk and looked around. Alright, it was a city, well enough. Now what?

While she was contemplating possibilities, she noticed that the hem of her shirt was slowly creeping upward. "What the...?" She pulled it back down, frowning. Now that was weird. She'd had underwear ride up before, of course, but never fast enough for her to actually observe it.

Someone goosed her. That's what it felt like, anyway. When she jumped and turned around, the street behind her was empty. *What the fuck?! That felt like an icicle! Is someone out there writing 'Ghost' fiction? Harry Potter couldn't have schlepped that invisibility cloak all the way over from Hogwarts, could he?*

Something that felt refrigerated closed over her right breast, and she swung at nothing instictively. And connected with a satisfying crack.

There was a brief impressions of liquid droplets, denser and shinier than the rain, flying. Looked kind of like the mercury you got when you broke a thermometer. She saw, floating in mid air, what looked like a portion of a man's cheek. This was a brief glimpse, and nothingness seemed to flow across it, leaving only clear air again. Her hand was numbingly cold. An indignant male voice said, "Ow!"

She squinted. Now that she looked, she could see a faint man shape outlined against the pouring rain. "Darien Fawkes, you sneaky son of a bitch!"

"Hi, Scribe. Does P.O.G. stand for Poke Or Grab?" He demostrated with another goose and a grope. It was hard to dodge when you couldn't see where the hands were coming from.

She yelped, "Hell no!"

"Oh, well. Hang on a sec, and we'll get you out of the rain."

A van had pulled to the curb nearby, and the side door slid open. A stocky man with thinning hair peered out into the deluge. Something grabbed her arm and started to drag her toward the van, while the voice called eagerly, "Yo, Hobbes! Got her!"

It felt like her arm was being rubbed with ice cubes. "Are you kidding?! No way! Most people only have to deal with cold feet."

"Quit bitching. I'll ditch the quicksilver before the main event."

"Yeah, well, I don't intend to let this get past the preliminaries." She tried to remember how tall Darien was on the show, considered the height his voice was coming from, calculated distance from head to crotch level, and made a grab. She latched onto something, and squeezed hard.

Judging from the yell and the sudden disappearance of the grip on her arm, she'd been correct. As she dashed off, she heard his pained groans, and Bobby Hobbes crooning, "Aww, baby. Let me kiss it and make it better..."

*Slash. Gotta love it.* (wha-choo) (snort). *Crap, I gotta get dry, or I'm gonna end up in an emergency room getting molested by Doug Ross. No, wait, he's pediatrics, isn't he? Probably Carter. That is unless I just collapse on the street and Johnny and Roy come from Rampart...I gotta get in out of the rain.*

She was passing a brownstone, and a little old lady, complete with pink umbella, was just starting down the stairs. She twittered, "Oh, my dear! You're half drowned, and you look like someone has been chasing you around the block."

She sighed. "Madam, you have no idea how accurate that statement is."

"Is someone after you?"

"Basically, everyone. Men are dogs."

She tsk, tsked. "Are some nasty men chasing you, dear?"

"Squadrons, it seems. I'm not even sure I'd be safe in the 7th Heaven fandom."

"Well, you need to get in out of the rain, and you need someone to look after you who isn't a threat."

"Do such people exist here?" she said hopefully.

"Of course they do! I have neighbors...the sweetest boys. They never bring women home with them, and I don't think they even date. Very dedicated to their careers. I'd take you into my place and let you rest, but I'm just on my way out. I'm sure they'd be happy to let you stay for awhile, though. They could even help you get rid of those men who are bothering you. One of them's a policeman."

*There is a faint aroma of decay drifting down from Denmark...* (SNEEZE!) *What was I just thinking? That last 'choo jarred my train of thought right off the track. Well, I probably should be suspcious, but...Fuck it. I'm growning webs between my toes.* "Sounds peachy."

The old lady unlocked the front door for her, holding it open. "That door down there, dear. Tell them hello for me." She left as Scribe squelched down to the indicated door, and knocked.

As she waited for an answer, the mental gears started turning. *Let's see...Two sweet guys, no dates, one of them a cop...* Her eyes widened as the door opened.

*Shit.*

"Fancy meeting you here." Blair grabbed her shirt and hauled her in.

Part Eleven

Blair locked the door. "I gotta say, I didn't expect you to show up on our doorstep."

"I was decoyed in here by a little old neighbor lady."

"I gotta get her a potted plant or something. You're a damn sight nicer than the cookies she usually sends over. Hey, you're dripping all over the rug. Jim'll be pissed. You know what a freakin' neatnik he is."

"I tremble in dread." (WHA-CHOO!) (snuffle) "Actually, right now, I just tremble."

Blair's face was sympathetic. "Aww, poor baby! You oughta get out of those wet clothes right away."

"Oh, sure, I'll just strip right down." There was a pause. "Quit looking at me expectantly. You know damn good and well I was being sarcastic."

He shrugged. "A guy can hope. Here." He took a towel from a pile of neatly folded laundry that was sitting on the couch. "We can at least get you dried off a little."

Before she could react, he tossed the towel over her head and began to tousel vigorously. *Well, alright. It's just the hair, after all. It's not like he's Clive, the Leather Hairdresser and is gonna get all steamed up just ruffling my curls.*

The towel moved down a little. *That's okay. Neck and shoulders are neutral territory. Okay, throat's a little bit iffy. Maybe I ought to get that towel and...* (grope)

"Hey!" She jumped back, glaring at him.

He grinned innocently. "Towel slipped."

"Yeah, right." She gave him the finger. "Slip this."

He cocked his head. "You're not as polite as you were when Xander brought you over."

"Well, big whoopty surprise. I'm tired, I'm hungry, I'm cold, my nerves are shot, and..." (choo choo choo) "Cripes! I sound like a fuckin' freight train!" (sniiiiiiiif)

"I can dig it. Alright, you haven't really had the hurt yet, but I don't see any reason why you can't have the comfort." He handed her a comforter off the sofa. "Here, wrap up in this and come in the kitchen."

She eyed him warily. "I'm not so sure about that. I happen to remember what happened in there on Thanksgiving."

Blair smiled nostalgically. "Ya know, somehow we managed to get cranberry sauce on the ceiling, I'm not sure how. Say, P.O.G. wouldn't happen to stand for Potatos O' Gratin, would it?"

"No. And it's spelled 'Au' gratin."

He shrugged. "I studied anthropology, not English. Anyway, I'm just gonna make you tea this time. Guide's honor."

"Well..."

"I've still got some of the last batch of cookies the old lady sent over."

"What kind?"

"Tollhouse."

"Lead the way."

In a few minutes she was sitting at the kitchen table, wrapped in the comforter, with a chocolate chip cookie in each hand and the remains of a third being rapidly reduced to crumbs in her mouth. Blair was tending a kettle on the stove. She managed to swallow before the next sneeze, so that she avoided spraying crumbs. Well, not many crumbs, anyway. (kerchew) (sniffle) "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it. Some of this herbal tea will do wonders for you." He brewed the pot while she worked her way through more cookies. He poured a mug and set it before her.

She sniffed it suspiciously, then made a face. "Even as clogged as I am, I can smell the funk. It smells like a Louisianna bog on a hot day."

"It's good for you."

"Yeah, that's what they usually say about crappy tasting stuff."

"Oh, alright, Miss Finicky." He went to the cabinet and returned with a pale gold plastic squeeze bottle.

She jerked back in her chair. "Sandburg, get the hell away from me with that honey!"

"You've got a suspicious mind. It's for the tea."

"Oh. Okay."

"Unless you'd like..." "NO."

(sigh) "Alright." He squirted a huge dollop into the mug and stirred. "Try that." She sipped. "How does it taste?"

She made a face. "Like sweetened Louisianna bog water." But she gulped it down. Almost immediately she felt less congested. "Hey. I think that stuff is working."

"Told ya." He sat beside her, swinging his legs.

"I'm enjoying this respite, Sandburg, but I gotta ask. You're one of only three guys who haven't pretty much tried to jump me on sight. Fraiser because, well, he's Fraiser. Joxer has such a track record he knew his odds were roughly those of a spherical projectile composed of water in it's frozen crystiline form when deposited in the firey reaches of the netherworld..."

"Snowball in hell?"

"Yuh. And you. What gives?"

"I'm waiting for Jim. He'd be ticked if I started without him."

"Oh."

"A ticked off Jim Ellison is NOT to be messed with."

"But I thought you guys were gay?"

He shook his head. "Common misconception by those unfamiliar with slash." He shook a finger at her. "You should know better. According to fanon, we're only gay for each other. Well, except in your 'Verliebt' series, where I get it on with Freidrik. Thank you, by the way. But that hardly counts, since I was turning into a werewolf at the time."

"So you mean to tell me that you intend to..."

"Have Scribe filling in an Ellison and Sandburg sandwich. Yep, that's about it."

"Well, this has been the nicest tea party since the Mad Hatter stuffed the Doremouse in the teapot, but...Come to think of it, that tea did taste like there might have been a mouse doing the backstroke in it at some time or other. Be that as it may, I really must be going."

As she started to rise, Blair quickly sat on her lap, throwing his arms around her neck. "No ya don't. I got you, fair and square, and I want some severe cuddling before Jim gets back and trys to fuck both of use through the mattress."

She took a deep breath. "Tell me about the anthropological theories concerning the erotic obsession with the creator in primitive societies..." (pout) "...baby."

Blair's eyes glazed slightly. "We find this theme running through the mythologies of almost every recognized society known to man, from the implied with cave dwellers, to the explicit of the better documented Mayan and American Indian cultures. Beginning with the birth of the world..."

When Jim arrived five minutes later, he was still droning on, and Scribe was still struggling to unhook his arms. He surveyed them, hands on lean hips. "You asked him about anthropology, didn't you?"

"I didn't realize he'd go into lock down. Can you get him off me? He's pretty solid for a short dude."

"Don't I know it? Solid, that's my Hairboy." He leaned over and slapped Blair lightly, saying loudly, "Blair. Blair! Come out of it. You're squashing the nookie."

Blair blinked. "Oh, wow, man. What happened?"

"You zoned."

"Pulled an Ellison, huh? The last thing I remember is she asked me about anthropological..." His eyes started to unfocus again.

"BLAIR!"

He shook himself. "Thanks, Big Guy." He stood up.

Before Scribe could scarper, Jim scooped her up into his arms, trapping her neatly in the comforter. She struggled in the wrapping, then growled at Blair, "You planned this, you sneak!"

"And very effective it is, too."

"C'mon, Sandburg. I need you to spot me while I get her up to the loft." He carried the squirming bundle out of the kitchen toward the stairs.

"Put me down!" she demanded.

"Okay," he said agreeably. "On the bed."

"This is so not fair! Don't I get ANY choice in the matter?"

"Sure. Which one of us do you want on top? Blair, where are you?"

His voice floated back from a distance. "Just getting the whipped cream."

Scribe groaned. "The man is obsessed!"

"Yeah. Ain't he cute? Blair, sweetie, did you remember the lube?"

"As if I'd run out. Fresh tube on the night stand."

"I'm getting rather alarmed here." Scribe squeaked.

"Okay, if you're worried about getting squashed, we can do it spoon fashion."

"You're so thoughtful."

There was a pounding on the door. Jim halted at the foot of the stairs up to the loft. Blair came out of the kitchen, carrying a spray can. "Who the hell could it be now?"

"The bad timing police. Ignore them, they'll go away." Ellison said.

(POUND POUND POUND)

"I don't think so," Blair opined.

Scribe yelled, "HELP! Molestation in progress!"

A voice from the other side of the door yelled, "PUT DOWN THE VIRGIN AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!"

Blair and Jim exchanged glances. Blair raised his voice and said questioningly. "Foxy?"

"Lemme in. I ditched Scully, and I know damn good and well that bed will hold four just as easily as three."

Scribe rolled her eyes pleadingly toward heaven. "Cripes."

Part Twelve

(POUND POUND POUND) "C'mon, hurry up before Krycek finds me again. I already got punished once for letting her escape at the Sunnydale police station, and my ass can't handle any more."

Jim shrugged. "Oh, hell, Blair. Let him in. He's fun."

As Blair unlocked the door, Scribe howled. "This is impossible!"

"Not really," said Fox, as Blair locked the door after him. "Yeah, the logistics are complicated, and it's gonna take concentration and rhythm, but..."

"Jim, what's the stress limit on the bed?" Blair followed Fox over to the stairs. "Fox, how much do you weight?"

"Oh, about one..."

"I need to go to the ladies room." Scribe said quietly.

They all looked at her. Blair said, "Can't you wait?"

"With the activities ya'll have planned, do you honestly think my bladder will hold out? Besides, maybe you've forgotten, but that tea you fed me seems to be having a diuretic effect."

Fox and Jim glared at Blair. He shrugged. "So sue me. The way she was sneezing it would have been a chore staying on top of her."

Jim carried her to the bathroom, unwrapped her, and pushed her inside. "Hurry up. Feel free to lock the door if you like. Just remember, you have three guys trained in breaking down doors out here, and I, personally, get very hot when I kick the shit out of something."

"Hot? Hell, I'm surprised your damn smoke detector isn't tripped already." She shut the door, and began pacing as well as the limited space would allow. *Criminitly. I'm stuck worse than a fat man in a subway turnstile. I gotta get out of here, if I don't want to go from Britany Spears to Madonna in one night. One of them? Maybe. Two? Eh, it could happen. But three? OUCH! Makes me tired just thinking about it.*

(rap rap rap) "Scribe? I have my hearing turned up, and I can hear the wheels spinning in your mind. Do your business and get out here."

(ziiiiip) Fox sounded startled. "Blair, what the fuck are you doing with that Redi-Whip?" (sssssss) "Damn! That's cold! You crazy...Ooooo..."

"Blair! Quit that! Fox, just push him away. Fox?" (rap rap rap) "C'mon, they've started without you."

*Shit! Think, Scribe, think. Ditch the fucking logic and find a way out of here. Lesse...Drain? Nah. Toilet? Why did I even think that? Medicine cabinet? Nope. I'd probably fall off the counter and break a leg. Hmmm...Undersink cabinet? Maybe...* Scribe began to concentrate very hard on The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

She opened the cabinet and began to empty out the contents. *Towels, washcloths, spare soap, shampoo, hair conditioner, hair conditioner, hair conditioner, hair conditioner, case of lube, case of condoms, fleet enemas...A rubber duckie?! The things you can learn about people in their bathroom.*

Finally emptying the cabinet, she squeezed inside, and pulled the door shut after herself. The darkness was complete.

(rap rap rap) "Last chance, Scribe. Open up, or I'm gonna plow you on the bathroom floor, and Blair tells me that the tiles are pretty damn cold."

"Fuckin' arctic, man," Blair agreed.

*Damn, this better work.* She reached toward the back wall of the cabinet...

And it wasn't there. *YES!* She started crawling rapidly. Behind her she heard a muffled crash, followed shortly by three part harmony swearing. *I'd give 'em a 'neh neh neh neh NEH neh', but that would take too long. Hopefully that booger will seal after me, like the cave.*

The narrow passage wound along, and eventually she emerged into an open space. She stood up, and turned to check the passage behind her. Sure enough, it had vanished. Then she turned her attention to her surroundings.

*Another basement. Figures. And a big booger, too. Heavy on the dust and cobwebs. Either this place is deserted, or the owner is NOT Martha Stewert. Thank God no one writes fanfic about her. BRRRRR!*

Scribe leaned back against the wall for a moment, picking a dust bunnie the size of a jack rabbit off her foot. Something clinked. She stared. *Well, I don't have any personal experience, but I'd say those look an awful lot like a set of manacles and chains. Perhaps I'd best leave before I get personal experience.*

She found the stairs and tiptoed up cautiously. Upstairs she found herself in a rather familiar looking kitchen. *Hm, deja vu.* She went into the living room. *Deja vu, two. Or is that too?* (AHCHOO) *Oh, crap. I thought that swill Sandburg gave me knocked out the sniffles. Wait a minute, this was because of all the dust...Eyuk. It looks like a vacuum cleaner bag dumping ground in here. Oh, wait a minute...* There was a large wooden stake laying in one of the piles. *Okay, that explains it. So, I'd better...*

"It's impolite to just break into someone's house, but I'm willing to forgive you."

"BUGGER!" She jumped in shock as the cold hand touched her arm.

"I don't care what Xander Harris says. I'm bi, not gay." Angel didn't grab. But he didn't let go, either.

"You know, that isn't at all comforting. Let go, Angelus. I'm stuffed with chocolate chip cookies. My blood sugar is probably high enough to rot your fangs right now."

"You have me all wrong. I'm Angel, not Angelus. I've been to hell and gotten my soul back."

"Well, that was quick."

"Fans get antsy if there isn't action on a regular basis. You look tired. Come sit down." He dragged her over to the sofa and sat, pulling her down beside him. When she tried to get up, he held on tighter. "Relax. I'm not the mean, evil, lust and blood crazed Angelus, remember? I'm the sweet, haunted by guilt, angsty, tragic hero Angel." He pulled her head down on his shoulder.

"Angel? You oughta let me go. Buffy could walk in, and I'd really rather not have a Slayer trying to kick my butt."

"Shh, don't worry about Miss Valley Girl on PCP. I won't let her hurt you. Anyway, she'd be more inclined to jump you than thump you." He lowered her head to his broad chest.

Scribe's ear was pressed against his shirtfront. *Oo, quiet in there.* "Angel? What exactly are you doing?"

"You seem distressed. I'm comforting you."

She tensed. "HEY! I happen to know that the fanfic definition of 'comfort' is a hell of a lot different from Webster's!"

"True." He had her down around his belt.

"I thought you said you had your soul."

"I do. And I'm going to feel really, really bad about this after I'm done. I'll probably agonize over it for at least twenty minutes before I can do it again." He pushed her head into his lap.

"Angel, I want you to think very carefully about what I'm about to say. You aren't the only one who can bite."

The vampire froze. If he hadn't already been undead, his blood would have run cold. "You wouldn't..."

"Click click, Angel. I'm a tired, mega pissed off woman. To quote Clint Eastwood, do you feel lucky?"

He sighed and stood up, pulling her to her feet. "Well, I wasn't going to play with Angelus' toys, but if you're going to be that way..."

There was a knock at the door. "Damn fan fiction timing," he grumbled. "I'm going to ignore that."

"COME IN!" Scribe yelled.

Angel glared at her as the front door creaked open. A dapper young man in a neat business suit, carrying a briefcase, entered. "Ah, I see I'm in time to keep you from damaging our property."

"What?!" Angel growled.

"Yeah, what?" Scribe echoed, curiously.

"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lindsey McDonald..."

"I know who you are, Lindsey."

Scribe looked at Angel curiously. "Really? You shouldn't. He's from the spin off, and you're the Buffy version, aren't you?"

Angel sighed. "Look, it's a little late to start throwing something unecessary like logic into the mix, isn't it?"

"Whatever. In any case, he's a corporate lawyer. That's scary."

"Shut your mouth till I figure out a safe way to get you to..."

"Excuse me, Angel. But you'll have to release our asset."

"Yeah, release my ass." Scribe squirmed.

"Ass-et," corrected Lindsey. "But we own that, too." He opened the briefcase. "I have documentation here proving that one Scribe, who will be hereafter refered to as party of the first part, is the legal property of the firm of Wolfram and Hart, LA, and is to be placed in the custody of Lindsey McDonald (myself), who will be referred to as party of the second part. Said party of the first part is to accompany party of the second part back to LA, where she will be the main attraction at the office party." He offered a sheet of paper to Angel. "So give. I've already requisitioned her for my quarterly bonus."

"You might should listen to him," Scribe advised. "Corporate lawyers are bigger bloodsuckers than vamps ever thought about being."

"Nah. I'll just kick his butt."

Lindsey shot his cuffs and said cooly, "How many years haven't you filed a tax return?"

Angel paled, and said, "Not...not..."

Scribe said with dreaded awe, "Dear lord, the only bloodsuckers more vicious than a corporate lawyer. The IRS. Even in the deepest, darkest, most depraved hurt before comfort, no fan fic writer has ever resorted to that. You are ruthless."

In any case, the threat had loosened Angel's most likely numbed grip, and Scribe wriggled free. Lindsey was pulling a pair of handcuffs out of his briefcase. "And just so this document will be binding..."

Scribe backed toward the kitchen. "Does everyone in this universe carry bondage gear? And don't bother with the IRS threat on ME, Lindsey. I don't make a dime off these little lunacies. I say so in the beginning disclaimers."

"Be reasonable. The firm can offer you a very attractive benefits package. Guaranteed clean sheets on a regular basis, designer condoms, mink lined shackles..."

She scooped up a handful of dust and heaved it at him. There was an explosion of sneezes. As she ran out the back door she heard Angel complain, "Hey, I was hoping to try to reconstitute a few of those!"

Notes: To all of you who's favorite character does not get lucky, sorry about that. The tag line was just too perfect to pass up.

Part Thirteen

Scribe ran through the darkness, trying to put as much space between herself and the mansion as possible. *You can't tell me someone out there isn't writing Monty Python fan fic. This is just too damn close. I keep expecting to run into spam and a dead parrot. I'd laugh my butt off if I was reading this...*

She skidded to a halt, glaring up at the sky. "Alright," she snarled. "Stop laughing! This is serious business, you know! How'd you like to have your ass chased all over creation by a bunch of hot, sex crazed maniacs bent on ravishing you in every possible way, and..." She trailed off, blinking. "Oh, wait a minute. That's exactly what you would want, isn't it? And I bet you would've run a lot slower. Sluts."

She started to stalk off, muttering to herself. She paused, casting a glance skyward and said accusingly, "You know, you could be offering possible escape plans. Some of you must write." No answer. (stomp) (mutter mutter) "Damn lurkers."

A few dozen yards away, Scribe paused to scan the area, and blinked. Well, damn, civilization had disappeared pretty fast. There was no sign of habitation anywhere in sight. In fact, there were no roads or telephone or electric lines, either. *Crap. Either boonies or time travel fic. I hope I'm not back in the Xena/Herc fandom. Ares has probably reached the frothing at the mouth stage by now.*

There was a flickering light not too far away. It was getting awful chilly, and she crept toward it cautiously. It turned out to be a campfire. There was a man sitting before it, absorbed in sharpening a large sword. Not a hopeful sign.

Scribe peeked from the concealing cover of a bush. Alright, who was this one? She studied him closely. Good looking *God, aren't they all in this universe? I'd have whiplash from guy watching if they were like this back home. But no one wants to talk around here.*, long, shaggy dark hair. Really good looking, even if half his face was painted blue.

*Lesse...blue face paint. Hm. Celtic. Braveheart? Nah, he don't look like Mel Gibson, and I haven't run into Braveheart fic, why I don't know. So who else... Wait a minute, isn't there this really old immortal on Highlander? I wish I'd seen more episodes. What's his name? Something like a candy mint. Mentos... (God, I hate those smug commercials)... No. Methos. That's it. Methos. Hm. And if memory serves me correctly, I'd better get my ass out o' here, cause he looks like he's in his raping and pillaging phase.* She tiptoed away.

*Well, this isn't so bad, I suppose. I think I've had about as much bad luck as it's possible to get even in..."

It started to snow.

Scribe stood there for a moment, then looked up wearily. "It was the GEN threat, wasn't it? I was joking, okay? I'll write nothing but smut, sleaze, and plot, what plot if you'll just TURN OFF THE FROST FACTORY!"

The flakes drifted down faster, growing quickly into a thick flurry. *Okay, this is uncomfortable. I better find somewhere to get out of this.*

She walked a ways farther. She was shivering steadily now, toes going numb. But even thought the ground was now coated with snow, the air was sweet with a flowery scent, which she sniffed appreciatively. *Can't stop, but I can smell the heather, if not the roses. Huh.* Another look around. *This isn't a field, or a plain, or even a friggin' prairie. It's an honest to Glengary moor. Next thing I know, Heathcliff'll ride up and snatch me.*

There was the thunder of hoofbeats. She screamed, "FUCK! Do you have to take everything I say literally?!" and started to run.

The huge, dark horse sped up behind her. She tried to dodge out of the way, but it didn't run her down. It passed close by. As it did, she was snatched off her feet and dumped unceremoniously across a saddle and a pair of very strong thighs. All she could do was hang on as the horse sped up.

Talk about disorienting. It was worse than going on the Scrambler at a carny after getting half pissed on Tequila. *I did it once, okay? Once was enough.*

The horse came to a stop, and the rider slid off. She was still clutching the animal, not entirely sure that it hadn't stopped, but the world had kept moving. She was tugged from her perch, and dropped into a pair of very competent arms. The horse wandered off to an open stable. The rider began to carry her toward what looked like a rustic thatched hut.

"Uh...thanks for the lift. You can put me down anywhere around here. I'll take a taxi." No answer. The man was wearing a long cloak, and the hood was pulled down low, shadowing his face. *Cripes. Maybe it's Lestat, and I'm going to get a deep hickey before he tries to hump me.*

The man shoved the door to the hut open with one booted foot, and carried her in. Once inside, he deposited her on her feet, letting her slide down the length of his body. *Whu-oh. Definiitely a sexy body, and lots of it. That's one. Don't panic, Scribe. You've gotten out of tighter situations than this. Maybe you'll have time to defrost a little before you...* The man was fitting a massive bolt across the door. *To quote Benny, 'Oh, dear.'*

She looked around the hut quickly for another exit as the man lit several candles. Their illumination, along with the fire roaring in the fireplace, gave the room a golden glow. No exits except the way she'd come in. It was a crude, one room affair, with a table, some chairs, a rudimentery kitchen area, and a big bed in one corner, near the fire. Boy, that bed looked soft and warm. She rubbed one cold and aching foot against the other and resolutely ignored it.

He came back over to her, and brushed snow out of her hair. "Ye puure wee thing. Y're half frozen."

(ZING!) *OH NO! An accent! A Scottish burr, one of my favorites. That's TWO.* (deep breath) *Get a grip, Scribe. So what? There isn't any P.O.G. You can handle it.*

The man pulled off his cloak, and wrapped it around her. "Here ye are. This should warm yer bones a bit."

Big, broad, built. Sculpted face, dark eyes, lots of dark hair, flowing past his shoulders. He looked familiar. *Well, hell, doesn't EVERYONE in this universe?*

He pushed her gently into a chair, and said, "Pint Of Guinness?"

"Huh? No, that's not it."

He shook his head. "Not P.O.G. I was asking if ye want a pint of ale. Ye look like ye could use it."

"Oh. Yeah, as a matter of fact, I could force some down."

He drew a large glass of dark, foaming liquid from a keg in the kitchen area, and handed it to her, sitting down near her at the table. She chugged the liquid. (hic) "Thank you."

"Ye're welcome. Another?"

"Are you planning on getting me drunk and having your way with me?"

"I'd never trick, or force, a woman to bed her."

"Alright, then." she said gratefully.

He brought her another pint, and she chugged it also. In a few moments, she was feeling distinctly more mellow, and a lot warmer. She regarded him with bemused interest. "I hope you aren't offended, but I can't put a name to you."

He shrugged. "Ye've only written one fic about me. That was an AU, and ye never posted it. I didn't even have my own name in it."

"Well, what is your name?"

"In due time."

"Oh, well, it's nice to know that I don't have to worry about you wanting to knock boots with me."

He inclined his head. "Ohhh, I didn't say that. I just said I wasn't going to trick or force ye."

She eyed him warily. "So how do you intend to accomplish this?"

"Simple. Ye're going to surrender willingly."

"Oooow, we're just a tad proud of ourselves, aren't we?"

"Not really. It's just that I know yer secret."

She felt a tickle of unease. "No you don't. No one does."

He nodded slowly. "I do."

"I don't believe you."

He reached in his pocked and pulled out something very tiny. Scribe eyed him nervously. He stood up, and came to stand before her. "What's that?"

He held it out to show her. "A key to yer weakness. A way to unlock yer knees. In short, a way to get me what every male and most of the females in this universe have been chasing through twenty one chapters and two series."

She looked more closely, and gasped. It was a small, stretchy circle. "Not... not... a scrunchie!" He spread the little band open with three fingers. "No, you can't know... no one knows!" He slowly reached back with his free hand and gathered his hair together into his fist. She swallowed hard, a sheen of sweat breaking out on her forehead. "No, have mercy. You can't do this to me!" He wrapped the elastic band around the lush hank of hair, and let it drop, falling past his shoulder, down his back. Scribe gave a soft moan and slumped in the chair, staring at him.

He bent down and scooped the unresisting fan fiction author into his arms, carrying her toward the bed. She hid her face against his chest, groaning. "Undone, undone." Her hand crept around, and stroked the thick hair. "I never thought anyone would guess the final temptation..."

"Ponytails on Guys."

He deposited her on the bed, and began to strip. Scribe learned the answer to the ancient question of what, if anything, the Scotsmen wear beneath their kilt. As he moved toward her, she managed one final coherent question. "Who are you?"

"I am Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod. And in the end, there can be only one."

Moral: Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.

The End