"YEAH, WHERE'S JANSEN??!!" shouted the Author next to Consonant Guy. It was One-Dirty-Word-Option Guy, the Author who always typed in a one-line episode and left "FUCK--SUCK--TITFUCK--ANAL" as his four options. He looked extremely drunk and was waving a bottle of bourbon around. "WHERE'S JANSEN?" he bellowed. "I WANT TO FUCK HER TITS!!!"
"NADI-I-I-I-I-NE!!!!" shouted Consonant Guy into the microphone, causing a whine of feedback. "I'D LIKE TO BOIL HER PANTIES AND DRINK THE BROTH!!!" He began to howl like a wolf. The crowd began to surge toward the stage, as the eyes of Subgirlie and the TW Girl began to widen in fright. "TITS! TITS! TITS!" chanted the drunks in the crowd. A few of the more responsible Authors looked around, but the Cylon security was nowhere around. The crowd seemed poised on the edge of total anarchy. MarkT stepped to the podium, trying to restore order. He no longer looked like "Mister" T, but he was now about six foot six and looked about three hundred pounds heavy, a menacing presence. "SILENCE!" he shouted into the microphone.
Total silence in the lobby for a second, then:
"FUCK YOU!" One-Dirty-Word-Option Guy threw his whiskey bottle at MarkT, who was looking in the opposite direction at another troublemaker. The bottle shattered against his head, and he dropped to the stage like a sandbag. That was all the crowd needed. All at once there was a rush for the stage. Fitzgerald and Dabbler and JigSaw were at stage left, on the side of the platform where Subgirlie was now standing in a panic, her chair kicked over. Fitzgerald and the others could see, all the way over to the other side of the podium, four Men in Gray, physically fighting off drunken minor Authors with guns and knives; the MIG's had apparently just walked in from the kitchen entrance.
Now there was a free-for-all, as Authors kicked and punched other Authors, settling old scores and starting new vendettas. Fitzgerald saw Zorlond, lightning flashing from his fingertips, looking momentarily indicisive, not knowing whether the MIG's or the Minor Authors posed the greater threat. Then Zorlond went under the crowd like a dandelion under the front of a lawnmower, as two Men in Gray kept fighting and the other two, their jackets held high for protection, swept the TW Girl away (willingly, it seemed) into the kitchen. Several cooks and bartenders bore MarkT's apparently lifeless body on their shoulders, into an elevator, followed by Adama and Hilbert, followed by a beer bottle shattering against the closed elevator doors. Both Hilbert and Adama were bleeding, although not seriously.
Subgirlie now had her back against the back of the stage. One-Dirty-Word-Option Guy approached her. "What do you feed those puppies?" he leered at her drunkenly, pointing at her breasts. He tried to grab Subgirlie around the waist, but she kicked him in the kneecap and he feel back into the crowd.
"Need some help carrying those back to your room, baby?" shouted Consonant Guy, making a grab for one of Subgirlie's breasts. . . .
"Hey, over here!" Fitzgerald shouted. Both consonant Guy and Subgirlie looked. Fitzgerlad had just snatched up the seltzer bottle off the makeshift bar; he sprayed Consonant Guy in the face with it.
"YOU MOTHERFUCKER! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU--" CLONG! Fitzgerald bashed Consonant Guy over the head with the empty seltzer bottle. Consonant Guy fell backwards and was swallowed up by the angry crowd.
"Jump!" Fitzgerald called to Subgirlie. She jumped over the side of the stage railing the few feet to the lobby floor. Fitzgerald caught a glimpse of Dabbler, JigSaw, and Deuce, fighting hand-to-hand, and wondered for a split second why they just didn't all use their imaginations to restrain the crowd. . . . Then, more bottles flying, Fitzgerald was running toward the elevator bank with Subgirlie, holding his jacket up over her head. There was the sound of another bottle breaking against the bricks and a short exclamation of pain from Fitzgerald, who had just been hit with brown glass directly under his left eye. Fitzgerald stumbled into the elevator right behind Subgirlie; he fell to his knees on the floor, clutching his cheek in pain, as the doors closed behind them. He fumbled blindly for the buttons: "What floor?"
Subgirlie thought for a moment. She wondered if it was possible to climb up the stair-stepped balconies that faced the lobby. Both her room and the TW Girl's room had a balcony that faced the lobby. "Not my room!" she said. Fitzgerald hit "24."
When they got to the Author floors, no one was around. They walked the few steps down to "2404."
There was no one in the outer office, Fitzgerald found himself grateful that Vanessa was nowhere near the riot. Perhaps she had gone back home and was now safe. . . . Fitzgerald and Subgirlie walked through the inner door into Fitzgerald's office. . . .
Subgirlie sank into a chair, trembling. Fitzgerald, holding a handkerchief up to his face to stop the blood, had the presence of mind to go back out to the front office, lock the doors, and close the blinds. He walked back into the office. Something was wrong. He shouldn't still be bleeding. "Are you hurt? Bleeding?"
"I'm fine, really, just a little shaken."
Fitzgerald smiled weakly at Subgirlie. "Kinda had an interesting stay, so far?" he said.
She actually smiled back, although a bit ruefully, and nodded. Tough. Tough chick. "Is this your place?" she asked him.
"My office," he said.
"It looks like you," she said, and got up to look at Fitzgerald's wall decorations, which he had recently thought to install. His bleeding had stopped; he put the stained handkerchief back in his breast pocket. "Want something to drink," Fitzgerald asked her, getting set to pour himself a little gin.
"No, thanks, I don't--" Pause. "What the hell, got any vodka? Just a little?" Fitzgerald poured only enough to cover the bottle of the glass and handed it to her. Subgirlie swallowed the contents in a single shot. "Can I have another? Please?" She handed the glass back. Fitzgerald poured himself about three ounces of gin and another small shot for Subgirlie. "How do you know that I'm not one of those . . . one of those guys . . . like the ones down in the lobby?"
"I can take care of myself," Subgirlie said darkly.
"I could see that." Fitzgerald handed over her glass again; she swallowed the contents again and then set the empty glass back down on the bar with finality. She turned back to the wall. "I see that you have awarded yourself--" She pointed. "--an Olympic gold medal, the Nobel Prize for Literature, and the Congressional Medal of Honor."
"I felt they were in keeping with my character," Fitzgerald said. He took a swallow of gin. It smelled of herbs.
"What, um, sport was the medal for?" Subgirlie asked.
"Biathlon," said Fitzgerald. "It was a reminder of these two girls I knew in college who were--"
"--Bi-athletes, I get it, I get it," Subgirlie said, scowling at him. "So is this where you take them, I suppose?" Fitzgerald was paying Subgirlie very little attention. At the moment he was concentrating on putting a bathroom, with a first-aid kit, on the other side of the door to the right as you entered the office. And maybe a wine cellar. "I'll be back in a minute," he said. He crossed to the door and pulled it open. . . .
There was nothing but wall behind the door. He turned to Subgirlie, who was facing away, looking out the window. He closed the door and concentrated again, and opened the door.
Blank wall.
That wasn't supposed to happen either. "Well, that was quick," said Subgirlie wryly, crossing to a chair and sitting down. Fitzgerald closed the useless door and crossed to his desk. "Just stay right there, OK?" he asked her. Subgirlie nodded.
Fitzgerald picked up the receiver (it was an old black rotary phone) and dialed "0."
"Operator."
"This is Fitzgerald in 2404."
"Yessir, how can I assist you?"
"Op, you're an Author too, right?"
"Right. What's all this about?"
Fitzgerald lowered his voice, glancing toward Subgirlie in the chair. "Conjure something."
"What?"
"You know, MAKE something. From nothing."
Pause. "It doesn't work. I mean, I don't, I can't. . . . I just tried to pop myself a Diet Coke! IT DOESN'T WORK!"
Fitzgerald stared at the receiver in his hand dumbly for a second. Then: "Putting you on hold, sir." CLICK! At least the phones still worked. After a moment, the Operator came back on the line. "That was Adama. Please report to Suite 2001. Immediately."
"I'm with Su--, I'm with someone right now, and I can't leave her alone right now!"
"Then you'll have to bring her." Pause. "Please. Adama would like all the Authors who are still alive to go to Suite 2001."
All the Authors who are still . . . alive?
"I'll be there in two minutes! Op? Op! Get everyone out of the elevators and lock them down on the first floor, OK?" Pause. "Op?"
"What is it?"
"We have to go to Suite 2001 right away. Now."
Fitzgerald and Subgirlie left the office and went down four flights of stairs and down to #2001. He knocked on the door. It opened. Fitzgerald and Subgirlie walked inside. Most of the Authors on the "over 70" list were there: Zorlond, DejaVoodoo, L.E., JigSaw, Dabbler, Kenneth Kaunda, Deuce, Mello, Quiggman, Dr. Hook, rorshach, TriCity Bendix, wwweasel. . . . Hilbert was also there, looking grim. Adama was standing at the head of the table. His head was bandaged.
On the conference table was MarkT, lying there, not moving. "I can't get him to wake up," said Adama.
Dabbler put down the phone. "Phones are dead."
"What's going on?" Fitzgerald said, a little too loudly.
Adama ignored him. "Does anyone still have his powers?" Adama asked.
"What does he mean, "powers"?" Subgirlie whispered to Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald didn't answer.
"There are ALARMS, there are DETECTORS," Hilbert whined.
"What is he talking about?"
"The TW Girl was last seen leaving the lobby with two Men in Gray. Apparently of her own will." said Adama.
"Waitaminute," said JigSaw, playing with one of his pistols, "she CAN'T be one of them!"
HEY! Would somebody kindly tell me what the fuck is up?" Fitzgerald said loudly.
"Adama thinks the TW Girl let the Men in Gray in," said Quiggman.
"By the way, where were you?" Adama said, indicating Subgirlie.
"She's been with me," Fitzgerald said.
"Oh, I SEE!" said Zorlond, rasing an eyebrow.
"No, you DON'T see, you stupid old fart!"
"Will you two SHUT UP!?" Adama said. It was so unlike Adama to raise his voice that Fitzgerald and Zorlond.
"Sorry, Z," Fitzgerald said, immediately contrite.
"Sorry, Fitz--and, and you too, miss," said Zorlond.
"We know where Subgirlie was up until the press conference, and now Fitzgerald has accounted for her whereabouts afterward." Pause. "We have some time missing for the TW Girl." Pause. "We think she transmitted access codes so that the Men in Gray could invade en masse."
"B-But I've TOLD you, sir, we have sensors on the access tunnels for just such an eventuality. If it had been an impostor in a skin, we would have detected it. We would have peeled it right off her as soon as she arrived--"
"The MIG's have invaded?" Fitzgerald said, unbelieving.
"They have captured 40% of the Backstage ring, as of ten minutes ago."
"Oh, NO," said a voice from across the room. It was DejaVoodoo. "How do we know that was the TW Girl?"
TriCity Bendix spoke up. "How do we KNOW? She was wearing her clothes, she had huge . . ." His voice trailed off. "Oh, no," he said.
The same thought had pretty much occured to everyone simultaneously. When no one's seen your face, ANYONE can imitate you. . . .
"Whoever she was, she wasn't TW's Girl. But she had the body and the clothes. We've been . . . I've been a fool." Adama strode suddenly across the room. "It's even worse than that. I can't conjure. I don't believe any of us can. Can you, F-Cup?"
"No. I tried about ten minutes ago. And the Op can't even make a Coke."
Adama ran to the door of the suite. "I have to check something! I'll be back in ten minutes!"
"Where are you going?"
"Thirteenth floor!" He left the room.
"Adama! Use the stairs! The elevators are locked on the ground floor. For security reasons."
"Who authorized THAT?"
"Me."
"Oh . . . good job, thanks." Adama disappeared down the stairwell. . . .
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER . . .
A knock on the door. Dabbler opened it. Adama was there, huffing and puffing from running up seven flights. "It's worse than I thought. The little bitch smashed all the Crays."
Total silence in the room for five seconds.
Zorlond spoke. "We . . . are in serious trouble. . . ."
Mon May 7 15:18:12 2001