She went to the librarian's desk and picked up the phone. "911? Yeah, hello? I want to report a missing person." Pause. "Because I don't have the number for the police, that's why." Pause. "Because they charge for dialing information, and I don't want Ripper coming after me for putting extra charges on the phone bill." Pause. *Sigh* "Because I don't have a car, my feet hurt, and I'm not about to walk the streets after dark--this is Sunnydale." Pause. "Because... Just connect me to someone who can help me." Pause. *snarl* "Look! Only my major fictional characters are allowed to get away with arguing with me. If this was Star Trek you'd be wearing a red shirt, and you'd die in the first two minutes of the visit to the planet's surface. No, scratch that--you're not even a walk on. Hell, you don't even qualify as an 'off-screen voice'. If this was a movie, you wouldn't even make the cast list as Obnoxious Emergency Operator. Now, unless you want enough sleaze, grief, and pain to justify starting up your own tabloid, put me through to someone!" Her eyes narrowed. "How? To begin with, I just got through sleeping with Strife, God of Mischief, though no actual sleep was involved, if you know what I mean. Can you imagine what he'd do to someone who gave his chosen nooky a hard time, and... Hello? Oh, police. You sound surprised. Don't you get calls from 911 all the time? I see--not directly to the detective level. Well, send someone over to the Sunnydale High School Library. Oh, you might tell him to wear a string of garlic around his neck." She hung up, muttering, "The last thing we need around here is new vampires with badges."

*Bam*

The door banged open. "There she is, Gabby! Grab her!"

Scribe took off running through the stacks. "When will I learn not to make definitive statements around here? We actually need a Warrior Princess and pulp-fiction grade bard even less than vampires with badges."

Gabby yelped, "I resent that! I'll have you know that I've been published!"

Scribe was climbing a bookshelf. "Lemme guess--you entered a contest where you were eligible to win ten thousand dollars. You didn't but hey, you're being included in the anthology, and how many copies would you like to buy?"

Xena, standing in the aisle in front of Scribe's perch, tipped Gabrielle a cynical look. "Let's just say that she has a supply to last her through several years of birthday, anniversary, and Winter Solstice gifts. Climb down, Scribe."

"No way. I write the occasional itty-bit of femmeslash, but I'm not interested in participating, no matter how butch you can be, Xena, and just what the fuck are you doing here, anyway? I don't like Buffy/Xena crossovers if they're set in the Buffyverse. Don't ask me why. It's more fun watching mortals deal with the concept of gods than gods dealing with the concept of mortals who don't believe in them." Xena blinked at her. "I don't like coffee ice cream, either."

"You're weird, but cute. Gabby, start finding some relatively soft stuff, and make a pile right here." Xena pointed to the floor in front of the bookcase.

As Gabrielle bustled off, Scribe suspiciously said, "Why?"

Xena scratched. "You'll need somewhere to land when I knock you off that. I know that usually you don't get injured whenever anything happens over here, but I've been reviewing your record in your home dimension. Your right ankle when you were eighteen, slipping on the concrete back in the eighties, and landing on your back, the right arm in August last year, and the left arm two months ago. Ya know, if you count the left hip in February of '03 for the left leg, you've managed to break every major limb, plus cracking vertebrae in your back. I don't want to risk it."

"You're so thoughtful. However you still intend to bonk me somehow and knock me down?"

"I'm thoughtful, but I'm not good at coddling."

"Oh, good. I prefer my eggs scrambled, anyway. How the hell did you get here, anyway? I know that I don't have much trouble getting from one section to another, but I thought that the characters needed a plot device, or something."

"Ares is hunting you, and hello? Greek God? He can get around a lot easier than most of us. We offered to act as posse." She smirked. "I don't think he actually believes I'll hand you over if I find you first, but he figured what the hell?" They heard footsteps approaching, and Xena raised her voice. "Bout time. I was about to start laying down a pile of paperbacks."

A male voice said, "Are you kidding? If she landed on a bunch of those thick historical romances it would be like diving into a pile of bricks." The owner of the voice turned the corner into the aisle. Gabby was gagged. She had her hands cuffed behind her, and he had a twist of material on her top (right between the breasts, but it was her own fault for wearing that stupid halter thing--he hadn't been able to get a good grip on her shoulder) in one hand--and a gun in the other.

Xena sighed in disgust. "Shit. I think I rival Jim Ellison for the 'partner in peril' trophy." She reached for her chakram, "Let her go or..."

He lifted the gun a little higher. "Ah, ah, ah! I've watched the program. Try that nonsense and I'll shoot the sucker out of mid-air."

"Think you could?"

He shrugged. "I'm a television cop in a fanfiction. The odds are good, wouldn't you say?"

Xena scowled. "Damn. I hate it when other characters know the rules."

He waved with the gun. "Step away." Xena moved a good space down the aisle, away from them. Xena was smirking. "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking you'll still be able to zip over and snatch her, because I won't dare shoot for fear of hitting her. And you're figuring I probably won't shoot Blondie here because she's an innocent bystander." He barked with laughter. *sniff* "Innocent. I've read the previous installments. Okay, Xena--crouch down and stand on your hands. That way there will be none of that funky flipping through the air like you're in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon nonsense."

Xena grumbled, but assumed the position. Scribe descended carefully. As she touched down, the man handed her another set of handcuffs. "Here. Hook Gabby to that post."

Scribe did so. "You gagged her."

"For my own sanity, as much as for stealth."

"I may very well love you."

He grinned. "We'll discuss that later."

"Ya know, usually when one of the characters do that, I run like Jesse Owens. For some reason I find it charming when you do it. That's Gabby taken care of, but what are we going to do about Xena?"

"I'm out of cuffs. Can you think of anything that might stun her into temporary immobility?"

She looked over at Xena and raised her voice. "Did you know that Joxer has a more rabid fan base than you do, and hundreds of thousands of fan girls and boys think that Strife is sex on legs?"

Xena's eyes crossed, and she fell over sideways. The man shook his head. "You're good."

"I knoooow." She looked at him more closely, then said, "Two questions, Quinn. Where's Xander, and since when do you pack heat?"

"Quinn? My name's Woodrow Hoyt, but you can call me Woody." He leered again. "The nickname is very appropriate, very often."

Scribe clapped a hand over her mouth in surprise. "That's right!" she gasped. "I didn't learn until just the last chapter that Jerry O'Connell was on Crossing Jordan. I remember having a bit of a hissy that no one had notified me. Ooo... I so need to write some smut with you and Nigel, or Bug."

Woody was nodding agreeably. "Or both. Fine by me. By the way, both Nigel and Bug have been following your Gorgeous Stud, or Someone Else With the Initials GS, and want to know if you just find lab rats in general sexy, or do they need to bleach their hair? Oh, and I want some serious Mary Sue action, too."

"Then I'll have to get you a copy of that futuristic, world has been depopulated, women are scarce, group of snotty, selfish people stumble onto a shrewd survivalist who wants one of the women, who just happens to be the author avatar, story that I've got hanging out on my hard drive. Your actor is the base character for him. Now for the main reason I called you."

She had ripped the page bearing the spell out of the book and tucked it in her bosom--now she removed it. Woody's eyebrows rose. "I like your filing cabinet."

"Smooth talker. I need Xander Harris to perform a spell that will let me get home."

"And why should I help you?"

"Because you're such a corn-fed, white bread, boy-next-door, wholesome, all-around nice guy cop that you wouldn't actually force yourself on me. Oh, and the fact that if you help I'll write you some spectacular smut, and visit you first the next time I voluntarily come back."

"Best deal I've heard since they included the Mega Margaritas in Happy Hour at Rosalie's Ranchero Rendezvous." He removed a small electronic device from his pocket, one that looked a little like a cell phone, and flipped it open. "We'll need to find him first, so let me check my USL."

"USL?"

"Universal Slutpuppy Locator. Homes in on cute male sluts."

"Damn. I need one of those. In fact, do they sell them in bulk? I have a lot of slash sluts on my Christmas list."

"Unfortunately it's still a fictional device."

"That's all right. Some of us have money, and now that the idea has been put out there, someone will probably fund research."

*beep beep*

"Is that Xander?" asked Scribe.

Woody examined the read out. "Nope. Scott Evil."

Scribe perked up, then said, "No, he doesn't qualify as a virgin--even an experienced one."

*beep beep*

Woody examined the machine again. "How about Daniel Jackson?"

She considered. "He might qualify."

"Too bad. He seems to be in the middle of being screwed through the mattress by McGyver."

"Why am I not surprised? No, concentrate on trying to find Xander."

"Can you give me a few specifics to program in? A description might help."

"Tall, brunette, bee-yoo-tiful brown eyes, sax-y bod..."

"That could fit a lot of them."

"Hideous taste in clothing, can dance like an antique..."

"An antique? You mean he's stiff?"

Scribe grinned lasciviously. "When it counts. But in this case when I say 'antique', I mean Chippendale. He's a bit of a bitch..."

Woody looked confused. "From what you've told me I expect him to be bi, but not flaming."

"I'm referring to the little hang-over of the hyena spirit he was possessed by. What else? Um, chocoholic... I've gotten him addicted to Pop Tarts since we've been living together."

*click click click* Woody was punching in information at a furious pace. "I just need one more unique, defining physical detail, and I should be able to zero in on him. Does he have any identifying marks, like scars?"

She snorted. "He's been fighting demons in Sunnydale for years--of course he has scars, bless 'im."

*click click click* "How about tattoos?"

"Like the battleship?"

"Hey!"

"Psyche. He has a mole."

"Where's it located?" Woody was entering data again. *click click click click*

"It's in the crease where his left leg joins his pelvis--just about lost in the edge of his pubic thatch. It's tiny, so you pretty much have to know where it is to find it." *click click click* "How do you know about it?" *click click click*

"How do you think?"

*click click...* Woody peeked up at her. She wiggled her eyebrows. "Oh, I gotta get you obligated to me!" *Clickclickclickclick* *beepbeepbeepbeepbeep!* "Bingo. Follow me."

They went out into the school, making their way through the maze of dark halls till they came to one particular door. Scribe looked at the plate beside the door. "Life Skills?"

"Translation: Coed Home Ec, required."

She blinked. "Since when?" He looked at her. "I've been out of high school for awhile, okay?"

"Since women got fed up with cooking and doing laundry for their grown sons till they either married or got a girlfriend who was willing to do it."

"I'll be damned--actual progress in education!"

They went in. One section of the room was set up as a kitchen, and this was where the USL led them. In fact, it led them straight to the industrial sized refrigerator. Woody started to reach for the handle, and Scribe grabbed his arm. "Wait!"

"Why?"

"I've been watching horror movies most of my life. We're in a place where bloody supernatural weirdness is the norm, and we're in a darkened kitchen. If this was a movie, ominous music would probably be playing right about now. Have you got any idea of the odds of finding something grisly in there? I can quote you two prime examples just off the top of my head--Friday the 13th, Part Two, and My Bloody Valentine. Of course, if I'm going to site My Bloody Valentine, we need to stay away from the clothes dryer over there, too."

"You're babbling."

"I do that."

"The USL says he's here, and if that sucker is as airtight as they're supposed to be, we better get it open." He opened the refrigerator.

*Gasp!* Xander tumbled out of the refrigerator. "I can now say with complete authority that the light goes off when you shut the door. Thanks, man."

Woody reached down and helped him up. "How did you get in there?"

"Well, ya see, Ares came looking for Scribe, and he collected everyone he thought might help, so naturally he grabbed me. Things were going well till he caught me groping Joxer's ass. He said that if I needed to cool off that bad, he'd help me. I'm given to understand that I got off lightly."

"Oh, hell yeah," Scribe agreed. "He must be mellowing. I would have expected you to end up as Harris Tartare."

""What a lovely thought." He hugged her. "Don't run off like that again, Mommy."

Woody was watching. "You two have an interesting relationship. I have to remember to tell that psychiatrist from New York, Huang, about it, next time I see him at a conference."

Scribe patted Xander's ass. "It's okay to tell Huang, but don't tell Father Ray." She thought. "Never mind. After serving at Oz, I don't suppose there's much that could phase him. Xander, I need an experienced virgin to get us both home."

"I'm your man--literally."

"Okay, let's see what else I need." She consulted the paper. "I need a blond."

Woody winced. "Please don't make me go near Gabrielle again."

Scribe showed him the paper. "That's blond--no final e. We need a guy."

"Does he have to be a virgin, too?"

"Nope."

Xander said, "Does he have to be a natural blond?"

Scribe consulted the paper. "Nope."

They all three nodded, then chorused, "Spike."