PG for dark themes. Notes and the like at the bottom.
Returning
By Jewels (with help from Ennead)
Hush, little fictive, don't try get loose,
Mummy's going to get you a nice big noose.
If with that noose you do not fry,
Then Mummy herself's going to make you die.
The Writer swaying eerily as she sang, approached the door of the Subreality Cafe with a slow measured tread, face and body hidden in the shadows. The Bouncer sighed as he saw the Writer come closer. This was going to be one of those sinister as hell entrances, wasn't it?
"Look, lady," he said, stepping in front of her when she headed for the cafe. "It ain't Writer's night."
The Writer stopped and regarded the Bouncer carefully for a moment, before responding in a clear, precise, voice, "That's alright, I wasn't coming in anyway."
"Yeah, right." The Bouncer frowned. "Hey, haven't I seen you around here before?"
The Writer tilted her head and some of her thick blonde hair fell over her shoulder. Snowflakes went flying as she did so. It was snowing, as it always seemed to this time of year. "You should have, you threw me out of the cafe rather forcefully a few years ago..."
The Bouncer frowned at the Writer, whose appearance seemed at odds with her personality. Well, in the Bouncer's opinion anyway. "Yes, I definitely remember you, and I had good reason for throwing you out."
The Writer raised an eyebrow and regarded the Bouncer with a cool gaze. "It depends on your opinion."
"Tormenting your fictives in stories is one thing, but tormenting them while they're in the Cafe, that's something else entirely. That's why you were banned."
The Writer didn't seem particularly bothered by that fact. "Dull place anyway," she said with a slight sniff.
"So, if you didn't come here for the cafe, what /are/ you here for?"
The Writer turned and focussed her cool gaze into the shadows near the side of the Cafe. "Because there's someone I know wants to speak to me."
**
Milla lurked, using the shadows as well as the Writer did, maybe better. She didn't quite know what had drawn her here, except maybe the knowledge that something important was going to happen. Something...
That's what she got for being written with precognisance. Stupid writer. Killed in some accident in reality, she couldn't write stories to give Milla more background and depth. Maybe Milla didn't want depth, maybe she preferred being something of a two-dimensional character. No emotional depth - can't really feel anything normal. It made living in Shantytown much easier.
She had snuck away from the place that had been her 'home' and crept towards the Cafe, looking for someone in particular, and now, she'd found her. The Writer looked away from speaking to the Bouncer and looked unerringly towards Milla. The fictive shied away into the shadows, wondering how in Reality the Writer had seen her. That was unimportant now, as the Writer was looked as if she soon start heading away from the Bouncer and towards Milla.
A hand grabbed her from behind and yanked her around to face whoever it was. It took Milla's panic striken mind a moment before the memory clicked and she knew who the face belonged to. It was Ma'at, who she hadn't seen in... how long was it? Who was Ma'at anyway?
"Are you /trying/ to get yourself killed?" hissed Ma'at, throwing fearful glances towards where the writer was casting cool glances around, into the shadows, trying to locate the fictive. The muse's normally tanned skin was pale, and she looked terrified. "You don't know what she's capable of."
Milla shook her arm free of Ma'at's death grip. "I saw Kayla." she said bitterly. "Compared to what my life has become, death would be pleasant."
Ma'at shook her head, still fearful. "You don't understand, Kayla..."
She broke off with a startled yelp as a smooth voice spoke, as cool as the icy flakes that fell to the ground. "Lovely to see you again, Ma'at."
Ma'at jumped and wrapped her arms around herself in a defensive posture. "I can't say the same." she said, shivering as if cold, or afraid.
The Writer pouted, as if put out, but her eyes flickered with dark amusement. "Shame. After so much time spent together as well."
Ma'at didn't answer, just stared at the wall, rubbing her upper arms in an effort to make herself warm. Sufficed to say, it wasn't working. After a while, when she had managed to regain some sort of control, she glanced at the woman who didn't look particularly capable of evil.
"Why are you back in Subreality? I thought you were never going to write again."
The Writer smiled mirthlessly. "So did I, but I couldn't resist just one for the road."
"Really? Not much else to do when you spend half your time in correction centres."
The Writer's face fell. "How did you know about that?"
"A guess. You confirmed it. I mean, I should have expected your... habits... to spill over into Reality."
The Writer was no longer amused. "I came back here for a reason, and one reason only. I need to write a story."
Neither Writer nor muse noticed Milla skulking quietly by the wall, listening to every word.
"Well don't look at me for inspiration, and I think even the Queen Bitch would balk at giving you inspiration."
The Writer's fists clenched and unclenched for a moment, and she bit into her lip, drawing blood. It looked odd, the dark red trickle at the corner of her mouth, contrasting with the palid appearance of her skin. Ma'at almost felt sorry for her for a moment, only a moment.
"I have to write! You have to idea what it's like, to have these ideas that I had before you abandoned me, that run round my head, threatening to drive me mad. I have... I must do something!" she declared.
Ma'at raised an eyebrow. "I didn't realise you considered it an abandonment."
With lightening speed, the Writer hissed poisonously and grabbed the ragged mop that passed for Milla's hair, yanking the fictives head back, forcing Milla to bend over backwards to avoid getting her spine snapped in two. Ma'at started, knowing that her former writer was more than capable of doing just that. Milla shrieked and then fell eerily quiet, her eyes wide.
"Your feeling it already, aren't you?" said the Writer, whispering in Milla's ear. "Your memory of your written history disappearing. Soon you'll begin to fade, just like Kayla. I can make you come back. I can put you in one of /my/ stories."
Milla swallowed and to her credit managed not to wimper. "How do you know about Kayla?"
"She was my fictive, remember, I knew what happened to her." The Writer glanced up at Ma'at. "So what do you say, my dear muse. The story, or this pitiful little fictive's life, you decide."
"Calliope won't let me!" Ma'at protested. "I'd be exiled!!"
"So?" The Writer tugged on Milla's hair a little more, then reached out and gripped the fictive's shoulder. "Come on, Ma'at. What's exile compared to me going on a nice little killing spree through Subreality to satisfy these nice little urges I keep having." For emphasis, she squeezed Milla's shoulder, and Ma'at could hear bones cracking.
If she didn't agree to help her old Writer, she'd still be a muse, but Milla and probably a lot of others in Shantytown would get killed. She knew Shantytown because that was the sort of place that would attract the Writer. Fear attracts the fearful. There were a lot of afraid fictives in Shantytown.
On the other hand, if she accepted, that would mean only two casualities. Herself, and Milla. She would be exiled, and Milla would probably kill herself. A lot of the Writer's fictives had done that before she had stopped writing.
The needs of the many? Or the needs of the few?
"Alright!!" she suddenly screamed at her former Writer. "I'll do it, I'll give you one damned story, but don't expect another thought out of me you bitch!"
The Writer grinned, and Ma'at fought the urge to throw up, crawl in a ball, or hide. The grin was full of pure malice, and sadism, and promised dire things to come. She regarded Milla with a bloodthirsty expression and whispered in her ear again.
"Merry Christmas, Milla."
-Fini