Mary Ann bounced. You might not have been able to tell it on those itty bitty screens they used to have for televisions back when the show was first televised, but there was a fair amount of Mary Ann to bounce. "Oh, Ginger! The Professor was right! Scribe is on the island!"

Xander and Mulder had stopped wrestling. Both of their heads were bobbing a la those little dogs in the back windows of cars as they followed Mary Ann's... um... undulations. Xander whispered to Mulder, "So, in the classic Mary Ann versus Ginger debate, which do you pick?"

Mulder shook his head. "Fuck, I hafta choose?"

Xander nodded. "Scribe?"

"What?"

"You know. Ginger, or Mary Ann?"

"For the last time, Xander. I'm not bi."

"Yeah, whatever. Answer the question."

"Oh, hell. Um, all right." Thoughtful pause. "Mary Ann."

*Squeal!* Mary Ann bounced some more. "Oh, she likes me!"

Scribe backed up. "Don't get your cutoffs in a twist, it was all theoretical."

"Wow." Ginger's voice was breathy. "You talk just as fancy as the Professor."

Scribe looked at her a little more closely. "Are you related to someone called Buffy Summers."

"Why?"

"Certain similarities." She looked at the two men. "Xander, Fox. Pick your eyeballs back up, dust them off, and put them back where they belong. I need to find a way off this island."

Mary Ann sighed. "Good luck. We've been trying for..." Her forehead creased. "How many years is it now, Ginger?"

"Um... I don't know. I lost count somewhere back in the Reagan administration." She sighed. "I should have been back in civilization then. Think of what I could have done with an actor in the White House."

"Actually," Scribe commented, "Judging from your most obvious attributes, I think you might have done better in the Clinton administration. Anyway, I'm a special case." She put her hands on her hips and tossed her head back in the classic heroine pose. "I--am a fan fiction author. I thrive on solving impossible situations." She slumped into a more natural posture. "Logic don't always have a lot to do with it, but there's sort of a mutual agreement between writers and most of the readers: if you ain't ready to suspend disbelief, you need to get your butt off the net."

Mary Ann looked adoring, and Ginger breathed. "Wow. That is so profound."

Scribe looked at her again. "I'm almost positive you're related to Buffy Summers. She lives in California, after all."

Fox, scrambling up, said, "Nah. Too farfetched."

Xander countered. "Are you kidding? Thomas Magnum once turned out to be Blair Sandburg's mystery father. Ginger as Buffy's long lost aunt would be a snap."

A small furry animal with long ears and a cotton tail raced across the sand, making right for Scribe. She screamed and leaped at Mulder, who caught her in his arms, holding her up. "Get rid of it! Get rid of it!" she shrieked.

It didn't want to go, racing around Mulder, leaping high. Luckily we all know what long legs he has. Finally Xander managed to shoo it away, and Mary Ann chased it off into the trees. Scribe was trembling, her face hidden against Mulder's neck. "Is it gone?"

Mulder nuzzled her, giving her a comforting lick on the ear. "No."

"Quit lying to her, you creator hog," Xander growled. "Yeah, Scribe, it's gone."

"Thank heavens. Put me down, Fox." He squeezed her butt. "I said put me down. Now. Or I write you into a fic with the elder Spender."

Fox dropped her quickly, his face turning pale. "You wouldn't do that to me."

She patted his cheek. "No, I wouldn't. But it's a helluvan effective threat."

Ginger was gazing off toward where Mary Ann had disappeared into the palms. "Why were you so afraid of that cute little animal? What was it?"

Scribe shuddered. "That was one of the most vicious, aggressive plot bunnies I've ever seen, and I am not ready to take on a Ginger-as-long-lost-relative fiction any time soon."

Mary Ann came back out of the trees, humming brightly. "Okay, you don't have to worry about that rabbit anymore."

Scribe said nervously, "How can you be sure?"

"Let's just say that they aren't going to be able to bitc... gripe anymore about nothing but fish for supper." She smiled brightly. "I have a terrific recipe passed down from my upteen great-grandmother, Gabrielle."

Ginger gasped, tears welling up in her eyes. "That poor bunny! How could you?"

Mary Ann shrugged, "Ginger, I'm a farm girl. Practically any animal that doesn't bark or mew can legitimately be considered protein."

"And forget that 'poor bunny' hogwash," Scribe advised. "Those things are ruthless, and they multiply like... er... erm..." They looked at her expectantly. "Oh, hell, I can't say it. It's too obvious, even for me." She squared her shoulder. "Okay. Time to look for the exit," and marched resolutely into the trees, followed by Mulder, Xander, Ginger, and Mary Ann. Actually, it was Ginger, Mary Ann, Mulder, and Xander. They guys made sure they fell behind so they could have the best vantage point to view all three female backsides.

Scribe pushed her way through the lush tropical growth, muttering under her breath, "Cripes, why didn't I just stick to writing fan fiction about Smurfs and Winnie-the-Pooh? At least if those little boogers got horny, they'd be small enough for me to just bat 'em down. Hell, I could play handball with the Smurfs. I'm sure many people have actually dreamed about that..."

They came to a little clearing, where there were several sturdy huts made out of palm fronds. Scribe shook her head. "Willing suspension of disbelief, big time. Not even Army Rangers and MIT graduates could construct shelters that solid from the stuff available on this island without access to Home Depot."

A very upper-crust, supercilious looking couple strolled out of one of the huts and stopped, looking at the little group that had just emerged from the trees. The man looked at the woman and said "Lovey, you didn't mention we were having guests for cocktails."

"Darling," she twittered, "I'm perfectly astonished!" She fingered a diamond necklace, then patted perfect hair with a kid gloved hand. "I'm such a frightful mess." She addressed the group. "Really, it's most gauche to drop in unannounced."

"Okay." Scribe shooed everyone back behind the screen of trees, bawled, "Company coming!" then led them out again. "How's that?"

The man tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Rude, brash, sarcastic, lots of attitude..." He brightened. "Lovey! It's Scribe."

She peered more closely. "Why, so it is! Wonderful! We'd be written up on the society page, having her as a guest, if we had a society page around this benighted island."

Thurston patted her hand. "There, there, Lovey. I'll have the Professor whip up a printing press for you." He turned a bright smile on the group. "Please, join us in our humble abode for a bit of imbibing."

Xander's brow wrinkled. "Huh?"

"He says come on in for a drink." Scribe translated.

"Cool." Xander started forward.

Scribe grabbed him by the back of the neck. "I'm not so sure about that."

"Why the heck not?"

"I have a problem with getting in enclosed spaces and having people push intoxicating beverages on me. Over here it usually means they're trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me. If I'm going to be taken advantage of, I want to be fully conscious to enjoy it."

Thurston snapped his fingers. "Damn! She's seen through our diabolical scheme, Lovey."

"Well, go to plan B, dear. I told you to try that first, anyway."

Thurston looked at Scribe. "I'll give you a million dollars to sleep with you."

Xander and Fox both had to pick their jaws up off their chest. Xander whispered, "Can I be your agent?"

Scribe shoved him. "Look Gotrocks, I can write myself anything I damn well please in this universe. What makes you think I need your money. I don't make any money off my fan fiction. I don't prostitute my talent, what the heck makes you think I'd prostitute anything else?"

Howell shrugged and spoke to Xander and Fox. "All right. I'll give you boys a million to hold her down."

Fox and Xander looked at each other. Scribe promptly slapped them both. "Ow!" Xander yelped.

"What was that for?" Fox complained.

"That was for even fucking thinking about it!"

"Did not!" Xander protested.

"Do I or do I not know how your brain works?" Scribe demanded.

"Hey, I have some secrets from you!" he insisted.

"Like the gerbil incident?" He turned pale. "I rest my case." She made a very rude noise at the Howells. "Learned that from Blair Sandburg, along with some interesting uses for canned whipped cream. C'mon."

As they started off through the trees, Scribe was engulfed in a multi-colored shimmer of sparkles. She stopped and stamped her feet violently. "Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!"

"Oo!" Mary Ann, who had been following, clapped her hands. "You renewed!"

"Sonofabitch!" Scribe snarled. "All that damn work on the outside and here I am, a virgin again!" She shook her fist at the sky. "Don't you idiot writers believe in 'experienced'?"

Ginger shrugged. "They must. I don't have that problem."

Scribe eyed her. "You wouldn't. If you could convince anyone you were a virgin when you came to this island they'd be a candidate for ocean-front real estate in Montana."

Ginger cooed, "You say the sweetest things! Want me to show you a trick from my feature film debut?"

Suspicious, Scribe backed up a step. "Let me guess: your co-star was Francis, the Talking Mule. I don't think so." She headed back toward the beach. "I need a way off this island, but I can't think of any fandom involving boats that I want to get mixed up in. There was the WWII UBsomethingorother, and since that was an all male cast, it would be slash, and should be relatively safe for me, bootie-wise. But then again there'd be that whole torpedo-submarine thing to deal with, plus there are Nazis, and those tend to bring out the worst in the PWP writers, so... Mm. Dead Calm? Nope, nutty Billy Zane--already ran into him on the Titanic, narrow escape. Man does a good psycho. Talented Mr. Ripley? Oo... Tempting, what with Damon. But again, there's that murder thing..."

Fox looked at Xander as they trudged after her. "Does she always talk to herself like this?"

"It's how she comes up with her best plots. Stay quiet. When she starts working out the sex scenes out loud it's really fun. Especially if she needs a test subject to find out if a position is physically possible."

As he was speaking, a dark haired young man dashed out of the trees, scooped Scribe over his shoulder, and started off, with her kicking and screaming. Xander and Fox would have been in hot pursuit, but a small orange cat wound itself between Xander's feet, tripping him, and Fox passed out from a sudden wave of methane. The cat surveyed his handiwork smugly, then darted off.

Scribe was once again jounced along in a fireman's carry, making obscene and marginally blasphemous comments the entire way. They ended up back at the lagoon, where a small motorboat rested just up on the sand. She was dumped inside and, while she was trying to regain her balance, the young man jumped in after her.

He screamed at the cat, who had stopped and was industriously scratching in the sand. "Hurry up, damn it! Hold it, or I leave you here, and keep in mind that you'll be the first new pussy these guys have seen in about thirty years!" The cat sped over and leaped into the boat. He cut on the motor and they pulled out a little ahead of the disgruntled fan fiction characters that rushed out onto the beach.

Scribe sat up, dazed, rubbing her head. "What? Who? Huh?" She squinted at the man piloting the boat. "Hobson? What are YOU doing here?"

He handed her a Chicago-Sun Times. The headline said "FAMOUS FAN FICTION AUTHOR AMONG CASTAWAYS RESCUED FROM UNCHARTED DESERT ISLE." The headline sort of shimmered, then reformed. "CHICAGO BAR OWNER RESCUES SCRIBE!" In smaller print under the headline it said, "Hobson claims, 'She's the best I ever...'"

Scribe closed the paper. "You're a blabbermouth, you know that? I thought they could only print stuff like that in adult tabloids."

"This is the MarySue universe. The federales don't have a whole hell of a lot of control over the media."

"Meow." *whoosh*

"Oh Christ!" Scribe waved, holding her nose. "Look, Gary, I'm assuming that you have in mind what every other even remotely recognizable person in this universe has in mind..."

"Sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex..."

"Yeah, got it. Well, to tell you the truth, Felix there doesn't do much for a romantic atmosphere. Kinda like placing a honeymoon motel between a landfill and a cattle yard, if ya know what I mean."

"I have air freshener and a cork on my boat." The cat bit him. "Ow! Hey, do I try to interfere when you break the decibel scale makin' it with that Persian next door? Gimme a break."

"Meow!"

"Look, don't give me a hard time or I'll send you to visit that vet in the Providence section, and he'll neuter ya. Ow!"

It's very hard to steer a boat with an irate feline wrapped around your head. Gary proved this concept by steering straight into the submarine that had surfaced right in front of them. They rammed it so hard that Scribe was catapulted over the front of the boat to sprawl on the wet, slippery deck of the submarine. And since it was wet and slippery, she slid till she fetched up against a hatch. Sitting up she began to repeat her entire vocabulary of swear words, including the foreign ones that she wasn't entirely sure of.

Gary, holding a hissing cat by the scruff of the neck, was clambering off the ruined boat onto the submarine when the hatch beside her creaked open, and she drew back apprehensively. She almost wilted in relief when a dark haired man wearing glasses climbed out and stood, surveying the mess.

Well, thank goodness! Here's the one character I shouldn't have to worry about. I've had the most success in avoiding him, and he's usually too unselfconfident to try anything, anyway.

He helped her to her feet, and she said, "Well, Joxer, fancy meeting you here."

The man smiled at her charmingly, then grabbed her. "Oof! Hey!" She looked at him more closely, then said, "You're not Joxer! Who are you?"

"Lieutenant JG Tim O'Neill, ma'am." he said. "Communications officer. But," he started to drag her through the hatch. "Once I get you onboard, I may very well be put in charge of morale."

"Cripes!"