chapter 7 of 14
Crossover With: Star Wars, the Oz books, My Chemical Romance. Kind of. In a way.
Warning: Extreme Mary Suism.
Disclaimer: All characters who belong to Joss and co, belong to Joss and co.
Summary: post-Chosen: A group of watchers and slayers taking a creative writing class are assigned a simple lesson in author intrusion. But nothing’s ever simple when magic is -- literally -- in the air.
Mary Stu Got Harried, Chapter Seven: May the Farce Be With You
(In which Dana triggers a new mystery, while Andrew triggers an asthma attack.)
Padme lay flat on Andrew’s bed, her clothing loosened, breath coming in gasps, a sheen of sweat covering her skin. In other words, she was hyperventilating.
This moment was going not at all the way Andrew had envisioned it.
She’d taken the poster, the graphic novel, and seeing herself on the cover of a DVD fairly well. The scrapbook of star photos made the young girl’s eyes get wider and wider, and her breath catch. But it was the life-sized cardboard cutout that drove her over the edge.
“Here, breathe into this.” He handed her a paper bag, and she dutifully began gasping her breaths into it. Her hair, he noticed, was still perfect, and he had to tamp down an almost overwhelming urge to touch it and make sure it wasn’t molded plastic. As her breaths began to slow and color returned into her face, she managed to speak into the bag while also giving him an accusatory look: “Why is ... my picture ... on the ... ceiling ... above your bed?”
Oops. He’d forgotten about the photo he’d printed, the one taken shortly after V for Vendetta came out. “Um, I really admire you -- I mean, the woman who plays you -- as an actress.”
Padme seemed to accept that, and after a moment she let the bag fall away from her face and lay spread eagle on the bed, staring at her mirror image. “I’d never cut my hair that short.”
“It was for a part.”
“I can’t believe there’s an actress who looks just like me.” She struggled to a sitting position, and paled again for a moment. “This is not only another world, but another reality.”
“I think it was magic. We had an -- incident -- here recently, and --”
“But I don’t believe in magic.” Climbing to her feet, the young girl began wandering around the tiny room, examining pictures and the small display of action figures Andrew had began, to replace the collection lost in Sunnydale. He silently thanked the gods that he kept the topless Natalie Portman beach images hidden away.
“You don’t believe in magic, but you believe in the Force?”
“Well, of course. Doesn’t everyone?” She stopped to take a closer look at a tiny figure. “Hey, it’s Anakin!”
“Magic is kind of like our Force --”
“I still don’t understand how he and I could fall in love. I mean, I do love Annie, you know, like a little brother. But he’s just a kid.”
“Look at the figure beside the one you picked up. That’s Anakin, grown up.”
Wowzers? Nobody in the Star Wars universe would say wowzers. “Padme, how old are you right now?”
“Fifteen. Who’s this guy in the mask beside the Anakin dolls, dressed all in black?”
“Oh, just a villain.” Fifteen. That would have been close to Natalie Portman’s age when Andrew developed a massive, overwhelming crush on her. An idea played with the edge of his mind, and he had a feeling it was overwhelmingly important.
“I hadn’t planned on ever leaving Naboo, you know,” Padme mused, twirling the limited edition Darth Vader figurine between her fingers. “I spent all my time studying our laws, economics, sociology, environmental issues ... meeting people ... sometimes I forgot anything outside our world even existed.”
“You were a great queen.” She’d put the lightsaber on his night stand and now he examined it carefully, looking for any clues to who it belonged to.
“I didn’t really want to be queen. But I got picked as a candidate, and on Naboo you never shirk from your duties.” Setting Vader down, she picked up a doll of herself in the Queen Amidala costume. “I hated the makeup, but it really protects the skin.”
No clues. He carefully put the weapon down, his mind warring between his duty as a watcher to get to the bottom of this and his desire as a fanboy to somehow talk her out of those clothes. But suppose it turned out she was somehow the personification of his action figures? Did she have visible joints and no, um, female parts under there?
“Maybe after my term’s up I’ll run for the Senate. I mean, what does a retired queen do? Besides, if I really am destined to date Annie, I’ll want to go where he is.” With a guilty glance over her shoulder, Padme lifted the Amidala doll’s skirt, then breathed a sigh of relief.
Andrew also had to fight the urge to warn her about the future. If it turned out she was somehow real, it could change --what? Would his own past somehow change, into a world where George Lucas made movies that included an aging Padme, trying to protect her son and daughter against Vader? Or would Vader, the best movie villain ever, even exist? How wrong was it that Andrew wanted Darth Vader to exist, when in Padme’s universe he’d killed untold numbers of people?
“Andrew?” She’d turned to look at him, concern etched on her face. “What’s to become of me?”
“I’ll protect you.”
At that moment Andrew experienced overwhelming deja vus -- he’d heard those lines before, from him and from her. And come to think of it, he’d heard her say “wowzers” somewhere -- not Natalie Portman, but Padme. Where? Not in the movies -- it had to be from a fanfiction, some --
“Oh.” The story! He’d written it while picturing her just as she was now, and he’d given her a lightsaber just to add elements to the fight scene. And, for fun and because he’d thought Richard would get a kick out of it, he’d had Padme say “Wowzers” when Vader first appeared. Somehow, he was responsible for her appearance.
Now it’s was Andrew’s turn to hyperventilate.
Kara Philip’s alarm clock let out a gentle tone. When no one attended to it, the sound turned more rapid and insistent. When it still received no attention, it sent out a shrill, grating, high pitched beep. Then it went silent under the weight of a slayer’s fist.
After a long moment, Kara lifted her hand and rolled toward the clock, blearily trying to read numbers that no longer existed. “Damn. Dad’s gonna kill me if I requisition a new alarm clock.”
Sliding out of bed, she left the light turned off and used her enhanced vision to glance at the watch she kept on her dresser, conveniently out of range of any sleepy limbs. She was due on rock band watch duty in half an hour. Usually Dana was the first to get up, eager to get started on a new day and shaking Kara out of her lethargy -- actually, Dana’s morning perkiness was the only thing about her that really drove Kara nuts. But this time Kara’s roommate had slept right through the clock, and that presented a difficulty, because waking Dana could be problematical. Anyone who touched Dana when she was deep in REM sleep was likely to be flying through the nearest wall before either of them knew what was happening.
Deciding to put off that challenge, Kara headed into the bathroom, splashed some water onto her face, and examined herself critically. A brush tamed her tangles of light brown hair -- a little -- and since she was going back to bed in a couple of hours anyway, she decided to forgo the makeup. That left only a change of clothes and her breath to tame, and she was set. Wouldn’t her father be surprised at the idea of her being able to get going so quickly?
Grabbing a towel, she bunched it up and tossed it through the bathroom door, in the general direction of Dana’s bed. “Rise and shine, roomie! We’ve got some My Chemical Romancing to do!”
Silence. Dana not waking up at the first sound of a voice was a dangerous thing. Cautiously, Kara edged through the doorway and flipped on the light.
Dana’s bed was empty, except for a single piece of paper with a handwritten scrawl. Even from there Kara could make out the childlike scribble:
“Gone to save the world. See you at breakfast.”
Kara gaped for one long moment, then grabbed at her clothes. The breath taming could wait.