Decide which heroes show up in the Wold Newton Universe.


Most likely have them appear in the timeline's present -- possibly with Timeslip

and get to see the meteorite

or perhaps Destiny

















Cross-continuity conspiracy











"What's happened to us now?  Oh...   we're here."

Grey:  "Where's here?"

"What?  You don't know where we are?  You are new, aren't you?"

Northstar:  "You must excuse ze American, Mystique.  He has obviously never been in a fic before."

Hector:  "Oh, this is your maiden voyage in fan fic, is it, Grey?"  

Chen:  "It is mine as well, except for a really short thing Omar wrote where he made me Rebecca's off-panel lover.  Neither Anton nor Glam cared for it, that's for sure.  But that was enough for Sable to decide it was ok to show me around this place."  

"What?  Jon Sable has taken you here before?  But he never told me about it.  I thought we were closer than that?  Well, not that close..."  Grey Adler looks around.  He is in a bar, with different colorful patrons, most in costume.  Most seem depressed and bitter.  Very few of them seem to actually have something to be happy about.

Chen:  "That is so la-a-a-a-me for him to actually have him say, don't you think, Om--  oh, I forgot, you're going by Travis now.  A case of mistaken identity.  You do think of the lamest ones, "T"  And you know I never refer to the mistress as "Sable".  "   (Most likely will all be in script form rather than Quotes form)

"Well, welcome, Grey.  Since you're pretty much out of publication and Om--  I mean "Travis" only picked Sable up because it had you in it, this is probably the last time you'll ever see it, or much of anything at all after T's run on Freedom Force is over.  You don't have many other fans that actually publish stuff on the 'web.  This is...



                                  THE SUBREALITY CAFE!"

                                          Freedom Force #14
                                             We're hardly in NM time any more but if FF were 
                                        still in the NM-verse, this would be May Year 3




"The subreality cafe?  Come again?" Grey still puzzled as ever, wondered if he'd ever see his universe again."

"That's right.  Jean-Paul will explain it to you."  She and Destiny walk towards the bar.

"Actually, I see someone I know.  Hector will explain it to you, won't you, Hec?"

"No, you'll explain to me what's going on between us, JP.  Vicki, you explain it to him, k?"

"Uh, uh, Hec, or should I call you by your real name, Jebediah?  I have to talk to "Travis" about a certain special someone of mine.  Pride will explain it to you."

"You're not the only whose lover is lost who knows where because of a certain writer gone crazy, Vicki.  I'm coming with you.  Amy will explain the SC to you, Grey."



Another pub, not too far away.  A man in his mid-twenties, sitting alone at a table.  On a chair nearby rests a marine style backpack.  He pulls out a cheap timepiece;  a broken centerpiece off of those five dollar watches.  

"Working late?"  A man in a white tuxedo approached the South Asian Writer.  

"You?  I thought fictives weren't allowed in here."

"This is your first time here, isn't it?" the Assistant Manager answered, with a smile spread across his blue, furry face.  "I'm not a fictive...   at least not your ordinary run-of-the-mill variety.  I'm actually the Writer's Cafe version of him.  Hank McCoy, Assistant Manager.. at your service.  What can I get You tonight?"

"Oh, you're the A.M.?  I guess I should have read Yasmin's WC FAQ," the Writer smiled sheepishly.

"Well, no big loss.  Avatar Travis may not have, but Omar did apparently, or I wouldn't be in this story."

"Heh.  You are just as witty as on the old X-Men cartoon.  Can't wait to hear you say 'fascinating'."

"Moi?  Use that word?  Never." Hank said with a sardonic chuckle.

"Excuse me, Mc Coy..." a wooden puppet with an extremely long nose approached the blue-furred man in the white tuxedo.  The Avatar recognized him immediately.

"What is it, Pinocchio?"

"There are two characters trying to get in.  They say they're looking for him."  The creation of Gepetto pointed to the Writer/Avatar.

"Me?" The Writer/Avatar pointed to himself as if he'd been accused of doing something wrong.  Then he remembered what his Reality Version had told him might happen sometime.  "Oh...  it has to be those two.  He told me it might happen, I just didn't think I'd have to worry about it my very first time to the Writer's Cafe." he revealed his assumption, a gulp going down his throat.

"Really, Writer Sir.  If you don't want to deal with them, I could easily get rid of them for you." Pinocchio reassured the Writer/Avatar.

"You?  Take on Pride?"

Pinocchio looked as if his feelings would have been hurt, had he not been so used to that reaction.  "If you like, Mr. Writer Sir, I would be happy to show you how I handle them.  Would you like to come outside with me?"

Mr. Mc Coy interjected, "But I must warn You, Sir.  It is snowing outside and we want Your visit to the Writer's Cafe to be as pleasant as possible.  Let Pinocchio handle the fictives.  You may not think it from looking at him, but he's always been really good at it."

"No...  as much as I appreciate your offer, I can't let you do that.  I apologize for fictives trying to get in here because of me."  Writer/Avatar Travis picked up his laptop with literal kid gloves that he materialized on his hands and placed it into his camoflauge designed backpack, which now had lots of styrofoam inside to support the laptop, courtesy of the extra care Travis always put into taking care of it.  He walked to the exit, dressed in a heavy winter coat he hadn't walked in with.

"Hi.  You must be Pride.  So nice to see you in color for more than a cover shot.  And Vicki.  It's nice to finally meet you face to 3-D face."  The odd Writer/Avatar gave the former Darkhold Redeemer a hug.

"Save the warm and fuzzies, Scribe.  I want to know where you have Nash stashed."

"Nash stashed, huh?  Did you notice that rhymes?"

Pride didn't have much patience for these pleasantries or their bad form on top of it.  He lifted the Writer/Avatar by his black winter collar (the Reality version had never worn that kind of coat -- always considered it too much of a grown-up kind of thing) and held him up in the air so that his feet were a full two feet over the footprints he'd left in the snow.

"Where is Trent?!??!"  

"Wow, you do have some of your creator in you, don't you, Dustyn?"  As soon as the sentence vanished, Writer/Avatar Travis had disappeared from the superhero's grip and reappeared behind him.  "You know...  you're lucky I'm normally such a passive guy.  But my Avatar form can do a lot of things that Reality Omar hasn't allowed himself to try.  Especially to fictives like you.   Word to the wise...    don't test me.  Now, can we calm down and talk about this?"


man was the Assistant Manager.  His face was


His face was uncharacteristic of most humans.  For he was no ordinary human, but actually Hank McCoy, the bludgeoning Beast.  Or at least the Writer's Cafe version.






then turns to Destiny and says, "You and me, lady.  We have some celebrating to do."

"


Mystique and Destiny step up to the bar.  Mystique morphs into a more masculine form.   The bartender looks like he's in his early fifties.  He's wearing a red costume with a maple leaf on his chest.  "Louis...    two guinnesses for me, and a white wine for the lady!"

"But before you do that, where's my hug, Louis?  I haven'









Welcome Back To The Café
Falstaff wrote this. He should have been writing one of the five essays he has two days to do, but that's not the point... (gratton@worldnet.att.net)



----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Not home? What in the eternal name of -- what do you mean she's not home?"
Phones don't shrug. This is a pretty well established fact. Still, Leonard the Subreality Telephone made an effort. W-e-l-l, he spelled across his caller-id screen, t-h-a-t-'-s w-h-a-t h-e-r v-o-i-c-e-m-a-i-l s-a-y-s. I t-h-i-n-k s-h-e-'-s s-i-c-k o-r s-o-m-e-t-h-i-n-g.

"Scribe can't not be home," the Manager grimaced. "Law of nature. Work, comic store, home. Always accessible from one of those places." The nondescript supervisor brightened. "Oh, well. Switch over to the other line and send an e-mail."

A-r-e y-o-u k-i-d-d-i-n-g? Y-o-u-'-r-e g-o-i-n-g t-o t-r-u-s-t t-h-i-s t-o A-O-L?

"Good point." The Manager held his/her head in his/her hands. "I'm going insane."

"Problems?" the lone figure at the bar asked quietly.

"Infinite," the Manager answered. "A guy/gal can only take so much." He/she sighed. "The first Willey thing. That was bad, but I got through it. Hell, all the times Willey's ever taken control have been terrible, but I survived them all. I've lived through Laersyn's Night (which is never bloody happening again on a night I work or I quit, so help me Claremont), I almost got eaten by a non-entity villain. I've even" and here the Manager shuddered, "narrated a slew of stories for Willey himself. But I refuse to accept this 'Bartender' bullshit any more!"

The Manager looked plaintively at the figure. "This used to be so much simpler. I ran the place, the Bouncer kept things running smoothly, the Cook made sure we were always stocked...and you--"

"I know," the other said, "I know, but what can you do?"

"What can I do?" the Manager growled. "I can get angry! I can complain! And, like every other good fictive, I can angst!" He/she took a deep breath. "I cannot do double duty. I won't. Next time some Writer (and I don't care if it's the Scrumpy One himself!) calls me 'Bartender,' I will quit." Suddenly, the Manager's eyes brightened. "Say...why don't you come back?"

"What -- me?"

"Sure." The Manager grinned. "You did it once. You said it yourself, it was a good gig."

"I don't know -- I mean, I've got a career--"

The Manager shook his/her head. "You're grasping at straws. You've made a grand total of one appearance in fanfiction. Right here. Your big break came and went some time ago. Face it, old friend, you need this job. Otherwise, you'll end up just like the rest of the folks in the Wednesday night OIWA meetings."

"You know, I wish you wouldn't bring my One-Issue-Wonders Anonymous membership up all the time. It's supposed to be a secret, you know. That's why we call it anonymous."

"Sorry."

"It's okay."

"So are you back?" the Manager asked, stepping out from behind the bar and sitting down at his/her little desk beside the door to the main room. He/she looked happily at the desk; he/she hadn't gotten anywhere near it since his/her First Story.

The figure at the bar rose to his feet. Shucking his black overcoat to reveal a bright scarlet and gold uniform, he removed his hat from the bar and hung it on the Gump-head hat-rack, which flared its nostrils at the indignity but did not deign to speak. Picking up a cloth from beneath the bar, he smiled quietly as he stepped up to the polished wooden surface. "Of course I'm back." He smiled. "I said it before and I'll say it again: it's not so bad here." He began to polish a glass. "And Major Mapleleaf never lies."

And in the shadows of the Cafe, squinting in the dim light of his trusty EZ-Book laptop, Falstaff grinned. [There we go. The Manager's back to straight managing, and the SC's original bartender is back on duty. That oughta take care of that.]

"Um...beg pardon," a voice said from just behind the Writer.

"Hmm? What?"

"Ah. Terribly sorry to disturb you, sir, but--"

"Leave me alone, 'Toast. I Wrote you and I can UnWrite you just as quick."

The scrawny fellow in bellhop's rig gulped. "Yes, but--"

Falstaff sighed. "But you have a telegram for me."

"Er. Yes, sir. It is my job, sir." The gangly Fictive held out the piece of parchment, and the portly Writer snatched it away.

TO: Falstaff
FROM: Conscience Department
RE: Work, and your lack theof

Sir. Stop. Two essays due tomorrow. Stop. Three due Friday. Stop. Two more due Monday. Stop. Body requires some amount of sleep. Stop. The good Professor Darroch will not be so patient with you if you fall asleep in his class. Stop. Again. Stop.

In short, sir, planning on doing any work anytime soon? Stop.

"Now look here!" Falstaff raged. "This is intolerable! I have more important things to do! I have a round-robin chapter, an installment in Rogue Alphan and Arleccino Timeline to write, a mystery story with Gryphonkit to begin, the second chapter of Abel's Folly still to plot out, I have to find somebody to co-write the With Malice Aforethought cycle for the AT series -- and what the hell are you looking at, 'Toast?"

The spindly young fictive gulped again, this time producing an echo. "But sir -- your goal?"

"What about my goal?"

"It's -- uh -- it's still becoming a writer-slash-English professor?"

"Of course it is. So?"

"If you fail all your classes, sir--" a droplet of moisture rolled down the rim of the Fictive's spectacles from his forehead "--well, you'll never be able to do that. Right, sir?"

"Oh, bugger me with a wooden spoon," Falstaff growled.

"You'll be able to write over the holiday break, sir."

"Stuff it, 'Toast," Falstaff said, pulling out copies of "Farewell, My Lovely," "Early Autumn," and "The Axeman's Jazz" from his scuffed black computer-case. "One quick spell-check, and I'll get started on these two, all right?"



----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And now, (typing a mite quickly) I give you -- the Disclaimers!
The Manager, Leonard the Subreality Telephone, the Bouncer, the Cook, Milksop Milquetoast: Agent of S.T.S., and the Subreality Telegram Service itself belong to me.

The Gump-head hat-rack belongs to me, but the concept of the Gump belongs to L. Frank Baum's estate. If you don't know what a Gump is, then I'm truly sorry. Go out now and buy "The Land Of Oz."

The Scribe (Kielle, natch), Jesse "the Black Angel of Death" Willey, Laersyn, Gryphonkit, and the Scrumpy One (Phil Foster -- I know it's a kind of beer, but I've developed a liking for that word -- who I couldn't help tweaking a bit) belong to themselves.

Major Mapleleaf belongs to Marvel, which hasn't used him since Alpha Flight #106. He really was the first bartender at the SC; his first (and only) appearance being in the second SC tale, Raindrops Keep Falling In My Beer.

Chris Claremont belongs to himself, as does the ever-understanding Professor Lynn Darroch (Intro to Detective Fiction instructor par excellence and a fine gentleman, folks!).

"Farewell, My Lovely" belongs to the Raymond Chandler estate; "Early Autumn" to Robert B. Parker; and "The Axeman's Jazz" to Julie Smith. I've referred to a great many story threads here, but since I'm strapped for time I'll keep it brief. If it ain't obviously mine, then it belongs to Kielle, Tapestry, Willey, Laersyn, or Phil.

The SC was invented by Kielle and Tapestry.

Oh, and I really am looking for somebody to help me write a story arc featuring the Arleccino Timeline X-Men. Like I said, it's called "With Malice Aforethought," and it's based around my short vignette of the same name. Any takers? QueenB, you out there? 'Sparagirl?

Ah, me. Seven and a half hours till class starts; one and two-thirds essays to go...

'Staff




subreality.com/sc/fics/rkfimb.htm   is the other story with Major Mapleleaf