ABYSSMAL Productions presents

"Alors, mon ami, p'raps you best be starting at the start, oui?"

The Manager heaved a sigh and leaned back in his/her chair. Remy Lebeau, P.I., took the opportunity to light up a Silk Cut unfiltered by touching his finger to the tip and charging the molecules of the cigarette. *I do so love it when de Writer lets me do dat. Just bout makes up for d'accent.*, he thought. It beat the hell out of only being able to charge cigarettes if he wanted to throw them at people. What a waste that would be.

"Hey, where's your partner?"

"Pete, he out questioning de bystanders and such. We drew straws t'figure who got t'come and question you."

"You won?"

"I lost. Not personal, but der's a whole lotta femmes in de cafe far prettier den you, mon ami. You ready t`tell de tale? De powers dat be want an answer ta what appened here."

Sighing once again and waging an internal war against asking the Cajun for a cigarette, the Manager started to tell his/her story.

"It started out like just another night...and then the crate arrived...

The room started to go out of focus as Subreality began to recreate the events in question...

*Mon Dieu, I despise flashback sequences.* Lebeau thought to himself as things went blurry...

"Boss, you better get out here." The Bouncer risked a glance inside to confirm the Manager had heard his call, then returned his attention to the dilemma before him. As dilemmas went, the Bouncer thought this was a fairly new one, and for the Bouncer of the Subreality Cafe to say something was new was definitely unusual. The Manager worked his/her way out the door and stood by the Bouncer's nook, rubbing his/her hands slightly in the cold.

"What's the problem?"

"That is."

That' was a medium size packing crate.

It was wood, and had a variety of shipping stickers labelled `Ottawa', `Montreal', `Sydney', `Genosha' `Antarctica' and most peculiarly, `Geshem'. It bore a large Fed-Ex logo across the side, and prominently displayed an upside down This side up' label as well.

"Where the hell is Geshem?"

"Beats me boss. It sounds vaguely familiar... where are those other places?"

"Sydney's in Australia..."

"What about the first two?"

"Canada."

The Bouncer and the Manager looked at each other and unconsciously took a step back away from the crate.

"Who is it addressed to?"

"No one, it just says `care-of Subreality Cafe'. No return address, nothing. I was chatting with Siku for a minute, then I looked down and there it was."

"Hmmm... hang on a sec, I'll be right back."

The Manager walked back into the Cafe.

The Bouncer watched the crate suspiciously while he was gone. A few minutes later he emerged again, a large but fairly civilized looking fictive of Sabretooth in toe. The Bouncer nodded a greeting.

"Hey, Vic."

"Hey yourself. That the problem?"

"A'yep."

The Manager stepped forward.

"I was hoping maybe you could just give it a look-see for me before we open it. What with all that mess with people disappearing a while back, well, we can't be to careful, can we?"

"Nope." Vic moved forward. He crouched by the crate and inhaled deeply. Then he closed his eyes and placed his ear against the side.

After a few seconds, he got up.

"No explosives, nothing chemical or viral I can sense. Nothing tickin' either."

"What about nanotech?"

"Yer kidding, right?"

"Sorry, they seem to be all the rage lately. Anything else?"

"Yeah. There's someone in there."

"Really... but who would... can you tell who it is?"

"Nope, not a scent I recognize. No weapons on em that I can tell. Weird scent.

Can't quite make it out... it's got something of a Writer-scent to it, but...

"Writers have their own scent?"

"Everyone has their own scent. Writers just tend to be a bit more... vivid."

"That's a polite way of putting it." the Bouncer chimed in. The Manager threw him a look.

"I mean they tend to have more background scent... comes from existing in so-called Reality... anyway, I don't find anything obviously dangerous... and also, he's asleep."

"How do you know that?"

" Cuz I can hear him snoring."

"Okay, Vic, thanks much. Can you ask Emma to come out here?"

"Which one?"

"Any will be fine, really."

"If I can't find her, you want a Betsy?"

"Only pre-Nimbo. I don't want anyone jamming psychic knives into the crate if there's a Writer snoozing in there."

"Sure." Vic made his way back inside.

The other two stood there watching the box.

After a moment, an Emma Frost fictive came out.

She was wearing a Generation X type uniform, and a leather jacket that read `Xavier Institute'...

and she was followed closely by about four Bobby `Iceman' Drakes. The instant she walked out the door, she turned and pushed the bat-wings back hard. The Bobbys went over like dominos.

"They buggin' you again Emma?" the Bouncer asked, throwing a dangerous glance at the door.

"It's the usual idiocy. My Writer has started working on some Star Trek project, and is not using me to nearly my full potential, and what with the midden of `Bobby loves Emma' fics out there lately, well..., if Chamber The Avenger ever gets back from St. Louis, I may ask him to melt a few Ice Men for me."

"They get outta hand, you let me know, 'kay?"

"You're an angel and a gentleman. What seems to be the problem?"

"This." The Bouncer indicated the crate.

The Manager held out his/her hands, pleading.

"I'm a little worried about this. Could you maybe do a quick scan for me, please?"

"Of course... just a moment." She closed her eyes and a yellow aura surrounded her head.

Telepaths tended to be a bit more visual in Subreality. After a moment, she opened her eyes and stepped back. "Oh my."

The Bouncer hefted his Arquillan Arm Cannon and looked at the crate. "What, what is it?"

"That is a very strange mind... oh, put that thing down, he's no threat... just, strange."

"Strange how?" the manager asked anxiously.

"I couldn't explain it if I tried, but you can find out for yourselves... he's awake." She turned to go. "I'll be inside at my usual table if you need me." She walked up the stairs and through the wings. A Bobby Drake jumped in front of her with a drink, which she downed, then shouldered right past him, stepping on his toe with a stiletto heel. As this particular Bobby was wearing only a pair of briefs, this left him rolling on the floor clutching his foot. Another Bobby stepped forward to pull out her chair but got in her way. Emma frowned once in distaste and kneed the encroaching Ice Man in the crotch to the sound of breaking ice. He dropped to the floor next to the first Drake, moaning in a slightly higher note.

The Bouncer and the manager ignored the cries of pain coming from inside the cafe as the crate began to move. A few seconds later it began to jump a bit, and a muffled voice could be heard.

"Hey...body... flip this...pid thing...wrong... side... HELP!"

They stared in confusion, then the manager noted the `This Side Up' sticker. Nervously, he tilted the crate over. It rocked a bit and settled properly. The lid popped open. They looked inside. The Bouncer kept the cannon ready.

There was a man inside. He was curled into a ball on his back, and not at all happy about it, irritation evident in his voice.

"I have got to get a new travel agent...or at least a faster courier service."

From the crate, there was a sound like trading cards in the spokes a bicycle.

It could best be described as a sort of...`fripping'.

Remy Lebeau, P.I., looked at the manager as if (s)he were slightly short of a full deck.

" `Frippin'?"

"You know... like trading cards make when you put them in the spokes of a bicycle?"

"You just sent thousands o' collectors into spasm wit dat image, mon ami."

"Look, it was a weird noise. That's the best I can do."

"Oui, mais... `frippin'?"

"Can I go on with the story."

"But of course." 

The legs came up out of the crate first, clad in black jeans and ending, or starting, depending on your viewpoint, in some well worn yet strangely shiny and fluffy looking Bunny Slippers. The legs came over the side and the rest of the body followed. The whole thing was eerily analogous to watching a Slinky spring out of a box and suddenly reassemble itself into a human being of medium height, in a denim shirt and well worked-in baseball cap that read `Kiwi-Experienced'. The newcomer brushed himself off and looked around.

"Hey, I made it. About bloody time!" he stretched his arms above his head and then turned his head from side to side. There were several disturbing `pops', "Two continents, three dimensions and four cities in a packing crate will give you such a crick in the neck."

The Manager and the Bouncer looked at each other in confusion. After a moment the Manager spoke.

"I'm sorry... who exactly are you supposed to be?"

"Oh, c'mon... didn't the entrance give it away?"

All he got were blank looks.

"C'mon... packing crate... prehensile appendages...? Surely you saw the Pregame show I hosted? All the major networks carried it."

The Bouncer frowned.

"Bub, this is Subreality. We get cable stations that haven't even been invented yet."

"Oh... well, in that case, allow me to introduce myself... I'm Abyss."

The staff traded yet another look. "Sure you are." the Bouncer said.

"No, really, I am... why, don't I look like me? C'mon, you know anyone else who frips'?"

The Bouncer turned to the manager, his eyes never quite leaving the stranger.

"Boss, wasn't the real Abyss in here a while back?"

"Hmmm... No... actually. He was Invoked once or twice, but I can't say I recall him ever actually being here."

"There, y'see, I am me. Can I go get a drink now?" He started to walk towards the door, but the Bouncer blocked his way.

"Well, if you are Abyss, you're outta luck. First Sunday of every month... fictives only. No writers."

"I don't think you understand... I'm not who you think I am..."

"Oh, so now you're not Abyss..."

"Well, I am, of course, but well..."

"Ummm-hmmm... look mac, it's been a long day, I'm in a bad mood. I already had to eject a couple of Colossus' for table dancing and help a pissed-drunk Hank McCoy into a cab without letting him puke on my shoes... so you'll excuse me if I'm just a little bit ungenerous in saying get your butt back to the Writers Cafe before I do something I won't regret."

"Look, I understand Writers aren't allowed here tonight, but I'm NOT a Writer, I'm as much fan-fic character as... well... you are."

"Izzatafactnow?", the Bouncer looked down at the young man through narrowed eyes. "So tell me something, Mr.-I'm-as- much-of-a-character-as-you-are, have you been written by over a dozen different writers? Have you been creatively altered on a regular basis to match the plot-du-jour? Have you had your very name, identity and gender messed with at the behest of those who wouldn't know Subreality if it bit them on their unmentionables?"

"Actually... well, not quite a dozen, but... yes. And you'd be amazed how many people don't realize Abyss' doesn't mean some old lady who runs an abbey."

"You've got an answer for everything, don't you?"

"Well, yeah, I'm annoying that way. Sorry though. It's just the way I'm written."

"Well write yourself somewhere else, bucko, cuz you ain't doing it here."

"Look, can I at least try and explain?"

"There's nothing to explain. You claim to be Abyss, even tho' you ain't him. You're a Writer. Writers night is Thursday. Some of them, a very, very small number, may pass through here any time. Kielle is one, Tapestry is another, Falstaff is the third, but that's it. The policy is clear. First Sunday night of every month is open to fictives only. Capishe?"

"Look, just give me five minutes to explain..."

The Bouncer looked to the manager, who nodded.

"You got three."

The Bouncer looked at his watch ominously.

The would-be patron took a deep breath and plunged onwards. "I'm not a writer. I'm not quite a character. I'm kind, of a well, I guess avatar is the best way to put it. But in the classical sense, not in that whole convoluted Perri-was- avatarred-and-feathered-for-Hawk sense..."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Nevermind..."

"Two minutes..."

"My writer wrote me into a few brief e-mails, really just as a joke, but then one message led to two, which led to a few dozen, and the next thing you know I've been beat on by some of the best writers in the fan-fic world, and suddenly I had a life of my own. C'mon, look at these," he lifted one foot to show off a dusty and well worn bunny slipper. The slipper stuck it's tongue out at the Bouncer just as he looked. Not quite sure, the Bouncer stared at the slipper for a few more seconds, not noticing the other slipper crossing its eyes and touching its nose with its tongue. The Bouncer looked back at the speaker. "What writer in their right mind would walk around in these?"

"The way I hear it, `right mind' ain't one of the ways you're supposed to be described."

"So you believe me?"

Again a look passed between the Bouncer and the manager. The Bouncer sighed.

"Yeah, I think you're who you say you are. Or at least, I think you believe you are who you say you are. Not many of your writer's fictives come by here, y'know."

"Well, Melodie was here once or twice, and I think the `Black-Ops' Logan passed through Subreality once, but most of them are so far removed from the mainstream universe that I don't think they've even heard of the place... in fact, truth be told, until recently, my writer didn't even know the Subreality Cafe existed."

"You're joking."

"I wish. You have any idea how boring it can be with only the same characters to hang out with all the time, and all of them not quite sure just how to deal with you, because you sort of resemble the Writer who created them? Personally, I think I'm MUCH better looking. The only reason I'm here is because He's so wrapped up in exams that He didn't notice X-Force sneaking me out the door."

"Aw'right, fine... go on in... but stay out of trouble."

"Gotcha. Thanks."

Pete Wisdom, P.I., settled onto the bar stool and pulled over an ashtray, then thought better of it and ashed on the floor. *No use settin' a precedent.* He thought.

"Now, mate, y'know I'm the last bloke who wants ta be takin up your valuable time and distractin' ya from serving drinks and such, but thing, is, those at the top wanna know what happened ere..."

The bartender applied a towel to some mugs and looked about. It was still early, the place was quiet, and no one was waiting for service. S/he put down the towel, filled a mug from the tap and drank deeply. "Just so we're clear, I never spoke to you, capishe?"

"Sure mate, sure. Mind if I smoke?"

The bartender waved absently, lost in thought. Pete Wisdom, P.I., lit up another Marlborough and leaned onto the bar.

"Well, he walked through the door..."

Abyss walked up the steps, and pushed in the batwings, which swung forward and snapped back with enough force to stagger him before he edged his way through. The place was fairly busy and a haze of smoke helped conceal most of the identities in the cafe. The lights were down low and the music up high. No one gave him a second look as he scanned the place. A few neon beer signs, turned pastel by the haze, showed him where the bar was. The Bartender was busy serving up drinks of every type and description. Abyss shouldered his way between a large fellow with a hammer in his belt and an equally large woman with a silver mohawk of all things.

The guy with the hammer in his belt turned to walk away from the bar holding four of the biggest beer-mugs Abyss had ever seen. He was a tall one, too, tall enough that Abyss had to duck or be brained by a passing mug. The sudden manoeuvre made him back into someone standing nearby..

"Hey, watch it."

He popped back up, face to face with a young lady sporting blue fur.

"Excuse me, had to duck a UFO."

"UFO?"

"Unidentified Fermented Object. You didn't spill your drink or anything, I hope?"

"Umm, no, I'm fine, really."

She moved off into the crowd and Abyss turned back just as the Bartender looked his way.

"What'll it be?"

"How about a pint a'Scrumpy?"

"Excuse me?"

"Nevermind, I just always wanted to do that... you have anything Canadian?"

"We have Corona."

"That's Mexican."

"Yeah, well, with NAFTA, who can tell?"

"Believe me, there is a difference. Any Sleemans?

"Maybe. Who wants to know?"

"If I said I can open the beer with my toes, would that give it away?"

The Bartender's eyes widened, then narrowed.

"You." It wasn't a question.

"Yep, moi."

"You haven't been round here before."

"Nope, first time."

"Why now?"

"Well, it seems my Writer is going into exams... and he's not going to be able to do much writing for the next little while... then he goes on vacation, which bugs everyone, because we languish in Limbo while he bums around in the Bahamas. Any rate, we pooled our resources and managed to smuggle me out of the apartment to scout out this place. With any luck, the whole crew will be able to hang out here while Abyss, Sr. is off improving his brain and subsequently liquefying it."

"So, what you're telling me is that if you like it here, we can expect a whole bunch of Abyss' characters to start showing up?"

"Essentially."

"Are they all like you?"

"They wish."

"Let me rephrase that... are they all as irritating?"

"Oh. No, not at all. Most of them are really quite grim and angst-ridden, except for the pirates. They're a pretty fun bunch."

"Pirates?"

"Yep... swords and all. Then there are the Cykes. Do you have any idea what it's like to watch TV with not one, not two, but FIVE different Cyclops'? The second you start to channel-surf they are on your case like Mhairie on...."

"Excuse me?" a breathy voice inquired from nearby.

"Oh, sorry ma'am, didn't see you there....anyhow, He's started about four fan-fics in the last little while, and none of them are quite done, so things are getting a little crowded, and we were hoping to be able to come around and hang out."

"Just so we're clear, I don't want no trouble here. You keep the hell away from any..."

"...mister Sinisters that are around. I know, I know. So how about that beer?"

"Ale or lager?"

"No Honey-Brown?"

"Just where do you think you are?"

"Apparently, El Salvador."

The bartender looked towards the door ominously.

"Did I say El Salvador? I of course meant Salvador Deli's... best smoked-meat in Limbo. I'll have a Lager please."

"There ya go. And I'll be watching you."

"No worries, Barry, I'll behave."

"What'd you call me?"

But the target of the question had already moved off into the haze. The bartender sighed.

It was going to be one of those' nights.

Abyss, avatar of the writer of the same name, but much cuter, in his own never so humble opinion, walked into the crowded Cafe. Towards the back were a few round tables occupied by card games. He found his way into a crowd watching five different versions of Gambit play poker. For a while, he watched the game. It was really quite impressive. Every one of them was cheating. One slipped an ace from a sleeve, another was clearly dealing from the bottom of the deck. One of them had a small purple dragon perched on his shoulder. The dragon periodically flew around the table, then landed back on the Gambit's shoulder and whispered in his ear. Still another had a classic Humphrey Bogart type fedora on that he kept adjusting, coincidentally slipping a queen-of-hearts from the back and into his hand. Abyss couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw a Pete Wisdom with similar hat standing in the crowd place his finger on his nose at the same time. The fifth one actually went so far as to open a small extra-dimensional temporal portal, flick a card in and draw another one out. The really amazing part was that all five players seemed to be aware of the illicit game going on beyond the obvious one, and they were quite clearly enjoying it. The crowd was transfixed.

Abyss was distracted by a sound that could best be described as...

"Chkkrkt."

Taking advantage of the distraction provided by the game, Abyss knelt down as if to tie a shoelace and slid his foot out of the right bunny slipper. Underneath, he was wearing a faded sandal.

"Hungry, eh?" he whispered, "Okay, go find a mouse or something, just stay out of trouble."

"Shuuup?"

"I said mouse, not Mice. No munching on the clientele."

The slipper made a sound roughly like Skkt' and slid off into the forest of legs.

Abyss sighed and stood back up and watched the game. The crowd applauded as the Gambit with the Lockheed on his shoulder played a straight-flush, subtly completed by a ten-of-diamonds coughed up by said miniature dragon, and took the pot. The Pete Wisdom in the fedora mumbled something about `flying rats' as the next hand was dealt. Abyss moved off again. He glanced around. It was time to see if the natives were friendly.

He wandered the Subreality cafe, pondering the questions of life...*I wonder if they serve anything to eat here?*

*Well, I understand the Cook makes an excellent rabbit-stew.*, another voice echoed in his head.

His left foot nearly missed a step as the remaining slipper shivered. Abyss looked around.

*Wrong direction, sport. Behind you.*

He whirled. at the booth behind him were several young fictives. He had never met any of them, but when his Writer was in classes, he had managed to browse through a few archives, so some were familiar... The redhead sitting at the inside of the booth was a young Rachel Summers, one of Val's... and a telepath.

"Rabbit stew?"

Every eye at the table turned to look at him. Next to Rachel was another of Val's... Cody, if he wasn't mistaken. Sitting across from them were a Blink fictive and a tall, blond haired young man who seemed familiar . On the other side of the man was the blue-furred girl from the bar. Curled up contently in the exact centre of the table was a cat who looked at him through one half-open eye. The blond guy spoke up.

"Excuse me?"

"Rabbit stew. Someone at this table just sent that thought into my head."

Blank looks passed around the table. The cat closed it's eye, apparently disinterested.

White-hair looked at Rachel.

"Ray, you messing around?"

"No. I have that mandatory `no intruding into other people's thoughts' rule, remember?"

He looked back at Abyss. "No one else here is a telepath, friend. Maybe you're just hearing things."

"Maybe... sorry, I was sure it came from here... I'm Abyss, by the way." he held out his hand. Blond-hair took it.

"Charles `Manchild' Pierce Rodham

Lehnsherrer..."

"From Team Omega. I thought I recognized you. Can I call you Chuck?"

"No. This is Blink, also from Omega, those two are Ray and Cody, and I'm sure you know who this is..." he indicated the blue-furred girl.

"Ummm, no actually... we bumped into each other earlier, but we haven't met... nice to meet you, miss....?"

A sudden hush passed over the Cafe.

Several sets of eyes turned to focus on the booth. Blink spoke in a hushed voice. She had to open and shut her mouth a few times before it worked.

"You... you're joking... you really don't know?"

"Ummm... no... should I?"

A heavy hand came down on his shoulder. A voice like distant thunder sounded in his ear.

"This guy giving you trouble, Siku?"

"No, not so far..." the blue furred girl said.

The cat got up and made its way across the table. It starred at Abyss briefly, then glanced at the Bouncer, then at Rachel. With a uniquely feline sigh, it made it's way back to the end of the table and proceeds to clean itself.

"He didn't recognize her..." Ray spoke, her voice stunned, "he really had no idea who she was."

The Bouncer took his hand off, but stayed close long enough to say, "I got my eye on you, smart guy.", before he went back to his post.

"Geez, they always this friendly here?"

Siku laughed. "Sorry, they're a little protective of me. It comes from being the subject of so many different authors."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Why?"

"Well, every time I get handed off to another author, something really awful happens... like there was this one time with these eggs, when..."

"Skkkt."

"Oh, excuse me, my shoelace is untied."

He knelt down and lifted his foot slightly to let Wink-Wink slide back on. Something that might have been the tail of a small furry animal disappeared into its mouth. Abyss' voice dropped to a whisper.

"What'd you find?"

"Nkkt."

"Slim pickings, eh? Alright... hey, what's that smell?"

"Urp"

"You didn't..."

"Kkkrkt"

"Which one was it?"

"Jbkkt"

"Not a squirrel in a small yellow trenchcoat?

"Urp"

"Oh, man, Martha's gonna kill me..."

Swatting the slipper across the ears once, he popped back up to the bewildered looks of those at the table.

"Who were you talking to?" Rachel asked.

"Oh, no one, just mumbling to myself, really... ummm, Cute cat. Yours?"

*Cute slipper. Yours?*

The avatar looked about in confusion.

"Did you do that?" he asked Rachel.

"Do what?"

Siku, Cody, Blink and Charles all looked amused.

"Is there another telepath around I should know about?"

*You could say that, yes. Do you suppose they'd go well with a bearnaise sauce?*

"What the..." His question was cut short as the bunny slippers bolted in opposite directions, leaving Abyss in the splits' on the floor, while the slippers skittered off.

Blink stood up and looked down at him.

"What exactly are you doing down there?"

"Would you believe yoga?"

*Nervous, aren't they?*

He painfully hauled himself back to his feet and looked around the crowded bar.

*That wasn't funny, whoever you are.*

*That is a matter of opinion.*

Suddenly he leaned across the table until almost nose to nose with the cat.

"You!"

"Meow."

"Y'know, I know a mutant canary I would just love to introduce you to.."

He stood back up. Rachel moved over and indicated the bench. Abyss seated himself.

CONTINUED IN PART 2