It's Not the Fall That Kills You...

Later, at the Subreality Morgue...

"Well, Scully... what have we got?"

"The subject, Abyss, is a male fictive, mid-twenties, extremely cute for a corpse..."

"Scully, please."

"Sorry, Mulder... subject has no visible mutations, but as he is a fictive, that does not preclude any number of possible non-evident physical variations... extensive development of musculature of various appendages suggests possible prehensile tendencies..."

"Scully..."

"Right... subject shows symptoms consistent with asphyxiation by submergence in alcoholic substance, indicated by huge grin on face and relaxed nature of corpse.... hmmm..."

"What did you find?"

"Traces of synthetic fur.... under the fingernails..."

"Are you saying he was killed by someone in an animal suit? Government agents maybe? Or aliens? Government employed aliens dressed up as animals?"

"Mulder, I thought we agreed you'd switch to decaf...?"

"Sorry . Can you trace the origin of the fur?"

"I'll have to send it to the lab for a detailed scan... why don't you go talk to Remy and Pete? Maybe have a look around the Cafe...

see if anyone saw anything?"

"This is Subreality, Scully. Everyone sees something, but no one ever admits to it."

Meanwhile, in a Place of Power, a small gathering of shadowy figures stood around a table ladden with doughnuts and fruit. To the casual observer they were unremarkable, but in the world of fan-fiction, they were giants...

and they were worried.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Well, someone has to tell the other Abyssmal fictives what's going on... and we can't guess how they're going to react. We had to send someone who could deal with them."

"Why him?"

"He can go immaterial and he's resistant to telepaths. No one can touch him."

"You think there will be trouble?

"Look whose fictives we're talking about."

"Good point."

#Bzzzzt#

#Bzzzzt#

#Bzzzzt#

The buzzer echoed through the apartment.

As the TV, stereo and kettle were all going at once, no one really noticed. It buzzed a few more times. Two Wolverine fictives seated nearest to the bell continued to pretend not to hear it. One of them, wearing loose leather pants and not much else, looked over his cards at the other.

"Any fives?"

The other Logan, wearing full Black-Ops combat gear, stared back at his opponent through narrowed eyes.

"Go fish."

With a snarl, the pirate Logan reached for a card, then stopped short as his hand sunk into a human sized catlike head that was phasing through the poker table. Both Logans jumped back, the Black-Ops one pulling a spike-knuckled trench knife from his harness, the pirate popping bone claws out of his hands. Three different Scott Summers' seated nearby on the couch glance over, then turned back to watching the Discovery Channel. The cat-form continued to rise up through the table like a weird apparition. From a bird cage hanging near the window came a cry.

"I tot I taw a puddy tat!"

The phantom rose the rest of the way out of the table and stood on the carpet. It could best be described as a feline version of a centaur, with a long barbed tail shifting from side to side.

"I did! I did taw a puddy tat!"

The canary took a huge breath and prepared to scream. Shatterstar, hanging from a suspended lamp nearby, leaned over and flicked it with a finger, knocking the bird unconscious.

Satisfied, he went back to painting the ceiling into a remarkable replica of the Sistine chapel.

The Logans crouched, ready to attack.

The cat-form spoke.

"Could we skip the mandatory scrap? I'm on vacation."

"Maybe ya better explain what yer doin' here then, matey.", the pirate Logan said.

"Sure. Name's Trough. I was sent here to deliver a message."

"The boss ain't here, bub. Come back in a week."

"Nope. I was specifically told to deliver this to whichever of you all seemed to be in charge around here."

Five different Cyclops suddenly emerged from around the apartment, each claiming to be in charge. After about a minute they all moved onto the balcony to discuss the matter, escorted by the Black-Ops Logan, Maverick and Jarvis the butler, all of whom were sporting very large guns to escort the mob. Siryn, in a black and red version of her usual costume, and Lady Mariko in black leather sporting a curved sword, escorted the visitor to the kitchen, which was blissfully empty.

"You two in charge then?"

"Well with Abyss gone, aye, we are." Siryn said.

"Get used to it then. He ain't coming back."

"What has happened?" Mariko asked.

"He's dead. They found him in a back room of the Subreality Cafe. Bit of a mess, really."

Siryn and Mariko looked at each other for a moment. Mariko moved to the kettle.

"That is a shame. Would you care for a coffee?"

"No thanks. You don't seem too

concerned."

"We're not. Abyss has died at least twice before. Sooner or later he'll get better.

Perhaps a beer for the road?"

"Sure. I'm headed down to the Shifting Sands to play volleyball."

"They have a beach there?" Siryn said wonderingly.

"Sure."

It took all of five minutes for every fictive in the place, except the unconscious canary, to pack up and leave.  

Sometime later, Mulder found Wisdom and Lebeau having a cigarette outside the cafe. It seemed the day's Writer was a non-smoker. They had all met during the `Great Disappearance', so introductions weren't necessary. Mulder explained Scully's findings. Suddenly, Lebeau dropped his cigarette and turned to the Bouncer.

"Say, what bout de slippers?"

Pete turned to his partner.

"What are you yammerin about?"

"You said it before, in de office... `dey killed Kenny!'... who killed Kenny?"

"The... mate, where'r you goin' with this?"

Lebeau turned back to the Bouncer.

"You still have em?"

The Bouncer shrugged.

"Now that you mention it, no. I lost track of em in the ruckus when the body was found in the beer cellar."

"Interestin'... verrrrrry interestin' indeed..."

"What're you thinkin, mate?"

"Pete, I'm thinkin you an me, we goin' to the beach."

"No arguement here, mate. You comin'?" he asked Mulder.

"No. I have a theory I want to follow up."

"Dis ain't like your theory on Hawk rigging the presidential election?"

"That was pure truth. Hawk was behind the whole thing, and it all stemmed directly from the closing of the archive, you see..."

Mulder kept talking for a few minutes before he noticed that his audience was gone, at which point he blinked and walked into the Subreality Cafe with his usual sense of awe. He had long since decided that it the Truth was anywhere Out There, it was probably in Here.

The problem was nothing stayed the same here long enough to nail it down. Even so, certain fictives tended to be consistent, and he needed one of those now. He spotted the subject of his search sitting at a table chatting with a rather large, muscular woman with green hair. Sidling his way through the crowd, Mulder approached the table. He opened his mouth to excuse himself for interrupting when he found the business end of a rather large pistol stuck between his teeth.

"Ummm... Misfire, what are you doing?" the other man at the table asked.

The green haired woman's eyes didn't even leave her companion, a middle aged man dressed like a teenager."I'm preventing an interruption, Kris. You were in the process of asking me out, and I hate when moments like that are interrupted. The gentleman will have to wait, won't he."

She moved the gun up and down, causing Mulder to nod his head in agreement. Adler threw him a look of sympathy and plowed ahead.

"Okay, tomorrow night, dinner and dancing, sound good?"

Mulder gave him a thumbs up. Misfire had other ideas.

"We're going to the theatre, not dancing."

"Fine, I..."

"And leave the ball cap at home."

"Sure, I..."

"And wear a suit."

Adler sighed. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, pick me up at seven."

She withdrew the gun from Mulder's mouth and holstered it inside her leather jacket. Patting Mulder on the head, she said "He's all yours." and walked out of the bar, straight-arming an Iceman fictive who got in her way.

Adler gestured towards the empty chair.

Mulder sat.

"Nice lady." He said, wiping his forehead.

"She has a certain charm. What can I do for you?"

"I'm FBI Agent Mulder. I'm part of a joint investigation into the apparent murder of a fictive at the request of a cabal of fan-fic writers who prefer to remain nameless, much like certain government agencies involved in the coverup of alien presence..."

Adler let him ramble for a few minutes while he finished his drink. Somewhere between fluke-man and girl guides from Mars he interrupted. "And you want what from me exactly?"

Mulder blinked.

"Oh, right. According to my records, you can instantly tell everything about a person by touching them. We need you to work your mutant power on the body to see if you can tell us what happened... but he's dead. Does that matter?"

"Not really. He's a fictive. Even the dead ones tend to have a life of their own.

When would you like me to come by?"

"Now would be good."

Adler nodded and the two walked out of the Cafe.

Meanwhile, at the Shifting Sands Archive and Beach Resort...

"Well mate, I do believe that those're Abyss' fictives over there."

"Oui... quite the number of belles there, non?"

"Quite. Suppose we should go talk to em?"

"It would be rude not to, mon ami."

The two trenchcoated P.I.'s made their way to where versions of Meltdown, Illyana Rasputin, Shadowcat and Stevie Hunter, were sunning themselves. All were wearing what could best be described as `medieval' swim suits.

"Scuse me, dolls. Would'ja mind if we asked ya's a few probing questions."

Remy, noticing that this particular groups of fictive all had rather sharp looking knives and swords resting next to their towels, wisely took a step back. Pete, on the other hand, leaned forward rather conspicuously. The Stevie Hunter type sat up a bit.

"You would question us?"

"I would do a lot a things to ya, luv, but... umm... nice knife ma'am."

Remy had just barely seen it coming, but it was still a nice move. She had rolled off the towel and put a blade at his throat just as he was distracted tapping off his cigarette.

"Would you perhaps like to gain a second smile, little man?"

"Hunter, perhaps killing him might be a touch extreme?" the Meltdown fictive asked, not even moving her head from the towel.

"Nay, Tabitha. Methinks it would be an improvement."

Figuring the rent on the office would be murder if he had to pay it himself, Lebeau took this opportunity to chime in.

"S'cuse-moi, miss... Hunter, is it?"

She just barely glanced at him. When Wisdom tried to pull away she jerked on his tie with her free hand, pulling him back to the blade.

"I am Stephanie, Hunter for the Mage of Geshem. If you will wait, I will be happy to gut you as well, Gambler."

"Look again, Hunter." the Shadowcat fictive mumbled around the straw of a Pina Colada, "That one's not the Gambler. Too scrawny by half."

"You won't mind if I kill him then, Kate?"

"Nay, go right ahead."

"My thanks." She glanced at him again.

"I'll be right with you, doppelganger."

Seeing the situation was rapidly getting out of hand, and Pete was starting to sweat, Lebeau tried a different approach.

"Look, mam'selle Hunter. We here

t'investigate one of your friends gettin`` killed. If you'd just answer de questions... I know Pete need a shave an all, but..."

She jerked the tie down and swept Pete's leg out from under him, sliding the knife just barely out of the way and leaving him laid out face down in the sand and she walked over to Lebeau.

"You mean Abyss."

"Oui. Some very important people wanna know what happened to I'm."

"What does this have to do with us? Sooner or later our Writer will resurrect him. He always does. I find He is inordinately fond of that one, Hades alone knows why."

"Bien-sur, but we'd like ta know all the same..."

"Very well, ask your questions."

Pete had started to get up when she casually rested a foot on his head and forced his face back into the sand. He pawed at her leg feebly. Lebeau ignored his muffled commentary.

"What can you tell me bout de bunnies?"

Her nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Ridiculous creatures. Always getting underfoot, eating the neighbours' pets... do you know they once dragged an entire dragon into the kitchen and tried to shove it in the microwave."

Down below, Pete gave a thumb's-up'.

"Would you say they were dangerous, then?"

"Only when hungry."

"Which was always." the Illyana fictive chimed in.

"True, Lillian. But aside from occasionally trying to eat the canary, they were not a problem."

"Why'd they never get the canary?"

"Abyss usually locked them in the closet with his hiking boots if they tried."

"I see... Abyss the Writer, or Abyss the avatar?"

"Why, the avatar, of course. You know the Rules. We are not allowed to interact with our Writers except in special cases, and then only when the Writer calls for it."

"Hmmm... did the bunnies ever complain bout dis closet treatment?"

"I know not. Abyss was the only one who could understand them."

"Mrpfff, gssssmmmm vnnndctffff?"

"Miss Hunter, could you let him up? I promise he'll behave, kay?"

She lifted her foot off Wisdom's head.

Spitting up sand and throwing murderous looks, he climbed to his feet.

"I said, would'ya think they were vindictive?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do ya think they were capable of murder?"

"The bunnies? Do not be ridiculous. How could fuzzy bunny slippers murder anyone?"

"How indeed, mam'selle. How indeed. Is der anyone here who might have dealt wit' dem a bit more, have more insight into how their minds worked?"

"They were slippers, sir. They had no minds."

"Still...?"

The Hunter returned to her towel.

"You might speak to Captain Logan. He occasionally hunted with them."

"Bien. Merci mam'selle. a pleasure making your acquaintance."

"You are not nearly as annoying as your friend. Visit us again some time."

"That I will, petite... that I will."

With a smile, Remy Lebeau, P.I., dragged his sputtering partner down the beach towards a volleyball game in progress.

"Howcum you get a date and I get a face full a'sand?"

"Style, mon ami. Some of us, they got it, some, they just don't."

"Fine, next set o'birds we meet, you go in first."

"S'fine wit me, homme."

The volleyball game was in full swing.

Two pairs of fictives were going at it, with a crowd of bystanders cheering them on. On one side, Logan and Mariko Yashida, both in pirate outfits, were serving to Trough and a mediterranean-looking woman neither of the P.I.s recognized. She had the blurry look of a fictive in-progress', which was to say written into a story, but not yet finished. Trough nodded at the detectives.

"What's doing, gents?"

"On a job, big guy." Pete responded. " Who's your friend?"

Trough gestured to the woman.

"Shakti `Cerebra' Haddad, from the X-Men, 2099 chapter, meet Pete and Remy, private Subreality dicks for hire."

Shakti walked over to shake Pete's hand, then suddenly stopped, snap-kicked him in the groin and walked away. Trough grinned as Pete crumpled and whimpered into the sand.

"Did I forget to mention she's a telepath?"

Pete's reply was lost to the sand he was crying into. Meanwhile, Lebeau approached the other side of the net.

"M'sieur Logan, I need t'ask you a few questions."

"I'm busy playing volleyball, mate. And frankly, you look a lot like a guy who tried ta kill me."

"Oui, I get that a lot, but dis is an official investigation."

"So?"

"So, could you please talk t'me?"

Logan turned to the Mariko fictive next to him.

"What do you think, darlin'? Should I talk to him?"

She grinned. It was not a nice grin. Pretty, but not nice."Perhaps he should prove himself first, my love."

"Darlin', I like the way you think." He turned back to Lebeau. "Tell ya what, mate. You an your crying pal..."

"I am not bloody crying!" came the pain-ladden shout from the other side of the net.

Logan continued.

"The two of you beat the Lady an I, and I'll tell ya whatever ya want to know."

"An if we lose?"

Logan grinned. So did Mariko.

"Well mate, if ya lose, yer buyin the booze fer me and the crew tomorrow night at this Cafe we keep hearing about."

There came a cheer from the crowd as several fictives in full pirate regalia heard this. Remy Lebeau looked at the crowd, silently cursed the day he took on this assignment, and nodded his head. He walked over to Wisdom, who had regained his feet.

"That was bloody stupid, mate."

"You got a better idea?"

"Yeah, we could'a just said `sod-orf' and left."

"You wanna `splain ta Kastanek how we didn't follow up on a lead?"

"We could just shoot cap'n claws over there in the head. That would make him happy."

"More'n likely just jealous. Let's just whip his ars and get the info."

"Sure mate, sure. Jus' one question..."

"Oui."

"How the hell do ya play this bloody game."

Lebeau reminded himself not to get near the Cafe tomorrow, sighed, and took off his jacket.

Sometime later, as Pete Wisdom, P.I. was carried off the court on a stretcher...

"Well, kid, ya played good. Ya still owe us a whole mess of beer, but ya played good."

"Indeed," Lady Mariko added over Logan's shoulder, "I doubt the Lebeau we knew could have cheated half as well and still lost gracefully."

Seated in the centre of the court, covered in sweat and cursing every cigarette he ever smoked, Lebeau mustered up enough energy to glare at the couple.

"Den... Do ya think ya might answer a question or two, seein' as how we all such great friends now an all?"

Logan grinned.

"Sure mate. What would ya like ta know?"

"I hear you hunted wit' the bunny slippers?"

"Sure. Man wants ta keep his edge on, he's gotta push his limits. That means dealing with the best."

"So, these slippers... they good at what they do?"

"Well, not quiet the best there is, but aye, I'd say they're damn good at it."

"Y'ever see them take down a man?"

Logan scowled.

"Nope. Just wildlife and such."

"But... could they?"

"What're you gettin` at, matey?"

"You heard me, homme. If dey was angry enough, could these fuzzy bunny slippers take down a man, tie him up by his toes, and stick his head in a barrel of Guinness? Oui ou non?"

The look on Logan's face was deadly.

"What do you want, mate?"

"I want de truth!"

"You can't handle the truth!"

"Humour me."

"Fine... you want the truth? These slippers are the deadliest predators I've ever seen. They're sneaky. They're fast. And they have cute little wriggly noses that convince you there's no way they could be any sort of threat. I've seen these things take down a dragon with claws the size of a Subaru. The thing was so busy laughing at the left one, it never saw the right one creeping up on him till it was too late."

"Could dese slippers have killed Abyss?"

"You're damned right they could have!"

"What would have kept dem from doing it before now?"

"He was the only one who knew where Abyss the Writer kept the gummi bears."

"Merde."

"You happy now, mate?"

"Non. But I got what I needed ta know.

Merci, m'sieur."

"See ya at the Cafe tomorrow, mate. Don't be late now... the Hunter'll be there."

Lebeau turned and started to walk away.

"Double-merde." he muttered to himself, grinning around his cigarette.

Kris Adler and Fox Mulder walked into the Subreality Morgue.

"Scully?"

Silence.

"Scully, you here?"

"Maybe she left?"

"Nah, she never leaves an autopsy half done. Scully?"

They walked into the examination room.

Scully was sitting on a stool, somewhat dishevelled, having a cigarette. Abyss' body was spread-eagle on the table with a sheet drawn up over the face.

"You find anything interesting, Scully."

"Quite a bit, actually, Mulder."

"Really? Do we know who the murderer is?"

"Nope."

"Do we have a murder weapon?"

"Nope."

"How about a time-of-death."

"Not even close."

"Well, what did you find out then?"

"You ever see the movie `Clerks', Mulder?"

"Uhhh, no."

"Nevermind then."

Adler gave her a strange look. Mulder just gestured at the body. Adler pushed the sheet off the shoulder and placed his hand there, fingertips just touching. He closed his eyes and a look of concentration passed over his face.

"What's this about, Mulder?" Scully asked.

Mulder just shushed her.

Adler continued to work. After a moment, a slight grin passed over his face. a few seconds later he actually laughed out loud, causing the agents to look at him in concern. When he dropped to the ground and started rolling around laughing, clutching his stomach, tears rolling down his eyes, they became genuinely worried.

On the floor, Adler suddenly sat straight up and opened his eyes wide. Mulder kneeled by him and grabbed his shoulder.

"Kris...what is it? What did you see? Do you know who did it?"

Adler's mouth opened and closed a few times... finally, in a voice hoarse from laughing, he choked out a few words...

"Homer...Simpson..."

Mulder nearly fell back on his butt.

"What? Homer Simpson killed Abyss?"

"No...just...got...last...night's...episode..."

Scully grabbed Adler by the shoulders and shook him.

"Adler... who did it... who killed Abyss?

You've got to tell us."

And slowly, softly forcing out every syllable... he did. Scully stood up. Adler fell back and started laughing again.

She looked at Mulder. Mulder looked back and Scully. And she said one word.

"Bunnies."

Adler sat bolt upright.

"BUNNIES!" he screamed, "Horrible horrible bunnies, with..." he held his fingers over his head, "looooong ears, and..." he moved his fingers in front of his mouth, "nasty, big pointy teeth, and... and... oh, my god, they're still out there! Run away! Run away!"

Adler suddenly jumped up and ran out the door. Mulder looked at Scully.

"Scully, call Kastanek. I think we have a problem."

 Sometime later, at the Place of Power and Doughnuts.

"...and dat, madames et monsieurs, is what we figure happened. Mulder told us, an we tried to report to Kastanek, but he was busy pointin' his finger at a Wolverine action figure and yelling `bang!'. "

"Any sign of the bunny-slippers?"

"Near's we can tell, they're still in Subreality somewhere."

"Thank you Remy, Pete. The funds will be transferred to your accounts as usual. Please excuse us now."

The P.I.'s left. Kielle turned to the others.

"So now we know what happened to Abyss."

"Well, at least when his Writer gets back we can tell him it was one of his own creations."

The gathered Writers began to rise and prepare to leave when someone spoke up.

"Hey, should we be worried about the slippers lurking around in Subreality? They seem to be dangerous."

"Oh, they are."

The gathered Writers looked at the speaker curiously. Hawk ignored the looks and grimaced.

"Trust me. No one ever, ever, sees a predatory cannibalistic bunny-slipper closing in until it's too late."

"So we're looking at the possibility of more dead fictives." the Scribe said.

Silence reigned for a few instants.

Finally it was broken.

"So... anyone wanna go for coffee?"

CREDITS (aka People Who Now Want to Kill Me for Real...)

February 1998.